


Between the Bars

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not between dean and cas), Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bottom Castiel, DCBB 2015, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Dom Dean, Homophobic Language, Multi, Physical Abuse, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sub Castiel, Top Dean, in minor characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5070232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is the proud owner of Purgatory, a BDSM club in the heart of one of California’s most densely populated cities. He’s content as he is, with no real lasting relationships, and prioritizes keeping an eye on one of the city’s most dangerous Doms, Alistair, over finding a partner. Until one night, he follows Alistair down to Purgatory’s basement and finds Cas, an innocent college student who’d stumbled in seemingly by mistake. After their third meeting, Dean takes it upon himself to teach Castiel the ins and outs of a Dom/sub relationship, and finds himself falling in love along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my incredible artist [dudewheresmypie](http://dudewheresmypie.tumblr.com) and my beta [ariwillowtwist](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com) on tumblr for the beta!! I hope this lives up to everyone's expectations!

There’s a fine line between play and abuse, and no one knows this better than Dean. It’s why he has the club’s rules posted in every room, why he hires so many bouncers, and why he personally spends as many nights as he can supervising his patrons. Most nights he doesn’t have to interfere with anyone’s activities, but once or twice a week some newbie gets caught up in something they can’t handle or a Dom steps out of line and needs to be escorted out. It comes with the territory of owning a club like this, and usually things get handled easily and quickly. Not a lot of people are willing to anger him. Dean has a hard-earned reputation in this city and most people who come into Purgatory know him and respect him.

There are the sensible, kind, and respectful people in the community, of course, and then there’s Alastair. His group shows up a couple times a month, always on Sunday nights, when Purgatory hosts what Benny, Dean’s partner, likes to call “ a night of free samples”. People can pay a reduced fee to come in and watch the goings-on, and participate in a few small-scale activities, like a free flogging. Doms and subs from around the city come to showcase their talents, a few professionals handing out business cards with their numbers advertised. Alastair comes in on these nights not to promote himself, but to inflict pain on the unsuspecting. He’s been around longer than even Dean, and their shared history just makes Dean more determined to keep him away from anyone he could potentially harm, as difficult as that job has turned out to be.

It’s a Sunday night, and Dean’s on guard. Nothing’s gone wrong, not yet, but with every new patron that walks in, the chance grows. Normally he’d be watching the stage; Benny’s up there now, cracking a flogger over the shoulderblades of a guy that’s exactly Dean’s type. If it weren’t a Sunday, Dean would wait around at the bar, offer to buy the guy a drink when he sat down, and see where it went. Tonight he barely spares a glance at the scene playing out. Purgatory’s getting crowded, and Dean doesn’t want anyone getting hurt tonight.

Alastair has been here for nearly half an hour. He’d nodded at Dean when he came in, a few friends flanking him, but Dean had lost him in the crowd before anything had happened. He assumes that Alastair has found someone by now, and that they’ll be downstairs. The Pit is where the really heavy stuff goes on. Dean’s been resisting following them, trying to scan the crowd, looking for faces both familiar and unfamiliar, but he knows Alastair and he knows nothing good can be going on down there. Dean slips down the stairs, nodding at the bouncers at the top of the staircase as he starts his descent.

Dean hadn’t founded Purgatory, but he had sworn a long time ago to keep it safe, and he does his best with what he has, but sometimes things slip through, and there’s nothing he can do about that. It infuriates him to no end, to admit that sometimes people get hurt under his watch He can’t fix everything, Dean knows, but he can damn well try, and tonight isn’t going to be one of those nights, not if he can help it.

When he reaches Alastair’s usual room, Dean is greeted by a too-familiar sight. Alastair’s got his claws into some twink, the men in his group pushing the boy around between them, grabbing handfuls of clothing and skin as the kid stumbles around, trying in vain to shove them away. No one’s seen him yet, so Dean sticks to the shadows of the doorway, watching the men as they laugh and jeer as the kid finally falls, bracing himself on his hands and knees. From where he stands, Dean can hear him now, breathing in short gasps that sound too choked for the kid’s eyes to be completely dry. Even though he’s got no idea how long the kid’s been down here, Dean would guess that he’d given up begging for them to stop a long time ago.

“You should have known better than to follow me down here if this isn’t what you wanted,” Alastair sneers, advancing on the kid, who still hasn’t tried to get off the floor. Dean shudders in revulsion; God knows what could be on the concrete by now. “Or maybe this is what you wanted, huh? What do you think, boys? Think this little slut wants to get roughed up a bit more?”

The men around them laugh and nod, one of them spitting a wet glob that lands on the boy’s cheek, and Dean snaps. He shoves through the group that’s gathered to watch this degradation, most of them parting for him when they see his face, then quickly disappearing back into the hallway.

“What the hell is going on here?” Dean growls at Alastair. The smirk on the man’s face doesn’t waver as he nudges the kid’s side with the toe of his boot. The slight force sends the boy sprawling across the floor as his trembling arms finally give way and he collapses onto his side, curling into himself instinctively. Alastair grins, sharp and feral.

“We were just playing. Kid came down here looking for something, and we felt like giving it to him.” Alastair’s men murmur in agreement, though they look unsettled at Alastair’s open hostility. “He never safeworded, Dean-o. I haven’t done anything he couldn’t have stopped.”

Dean glares harder, knowing that if looks could kill, Alastair would have been six feet under years ago. He stoops to his knees after a moment and holds out a hand to the shaking boy. When the kid meets his eyes, a startlingly blue gaze holds his steadily, even through the wetness clinging to his lashes. Dean tries to nod as reassuringly as he can, softening his expression in attempted comfort

“Did you want them to stop?” He asks gently. Alastair rolls his eyes above them and motions to his friends. They follow close behind him as Alastair sweeps out of the room and back toward the staircase, hopefully on his way out of Purgatory for the night. Dean ignores them as they go, keeping his attention on the kid next to him.

“Yes,” the boy whispers, in a voice deep enough that it throws Dean off. The kid can’t be a day older than twenty, and Dean has no idea how he even got in the club, let alone downstairs.

“Do you know the club’s safeword?” It’s posted in every room, along with the club’s rules, printed in big script on the bottom of every sign. If anyone says it at any time in one of the club’s rooms, everything stops. No exceptions, no negotiations. Couples have their own safewords for scenes, but it’s been a good rule to have. It’s Purgatory’s most frequently enforced policy.

“The—what? No,” he answers, finally taking Dean’s hand and heaving himself up, wiping the spit off his bruised cheek in disgust. In the dim light, Dean can’t see much of his face, but he can make out that the kid has a black eye, one that can’t be more than an hour old, and a split lip, among other small bruises across his cheekbones.

“What’s your name?” He asks, ignoring what he wants to know.

“Cas,” the kid answers. “I’m looking for Gabriel Novak? Someone told me he’d be here.”

Dean barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes when he hears the name. Gabriel spends a lot of time in Purgatory, but Cas here isn’t exactly his type. Someone must have sent the kid here as a joke, one of the stupid pranks that college kids play on each other all the time. “I don’t think that’s who you wanna go looking for, kid. You should get out of here.”

Cas doesn’t budge. All of the bystanders have cleared out by now along with Alastair and they’re alone in the room. He crosses his arms, glaring at Dean through his swollen eye, and holds his ground. “I need to see my brother.”

“Your brother?” Dean’s lost now. Not that he and Gabe are on particularly good terms, but he would know if he had a brother. Probably.

“Gabriel. My brother. I need to talk to him.” There’s a steel resolve in Cas' voice, and Dean figures that if he’s anything like who he claims his brother is, he won’t budge until he gets what he wants. Dean heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

“Fine.” He turns brusquely to leave the room, pausing at the door to motion at Cas. “Follow me.”

Cas sticks to Dean’s side as they walk through the hallways of the Pit. Alastair trapped the kid in the Rack, his own personal torture chamber he’d set up long before Dean inherited Purgatory, and Dean shudders to think about what might have happened to Cas if he hadn’t turned up. It’s something he’d rather not dwell on, so Dean focuses on the warm heat of Cas at his side, then decides that focusing on that isn’t much better.

“How the hell did you even get down here, kid?” The guys on watch tonight aren’t the kind that take bribes, Dean’s made sure of that, and if Cas here is actually twenty-one then Dean will eat his own foot. 

“That guy—Alastair—said Gabe was down there and that he could take me to him. Told the guys at the stairs that I was with him,” Cas replies. They start up the narrow staircase, and as Cas walks in front of him, Dean’s eyes fall naturally to the swell of the boy’s ass in his jeans. He shakes himself out of it as they reach the top, Cas turning around and waiting impatiently for Dean to finish climbing. In the somewhat decent light, Dean can make out the flecks of blood crusted underneath Cas’s fingernails.

“Why do you need to talk to him?” Dean asks, more for the purpose of making conversation than anything else. Cas doesn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, though, and shrugs, looking away as his hand drifts up to graze his split lip. Dean stops asking questions then, figuring that anything he’s going to say will just make things more awkward than they already are. He leads Cas through the crowd, toward the main stage, watching the kid’s face as he takes in the sight of a woman dressed in nothing more than various leather straps flogging her sub on the stage. What Cas sees surprises him. He’s shocked, Dean can see that, but he also seems… interested.

“I’m guessing you’ve never been here before.” It’s not actually a guess.

“No. Gabe told me if I ever showed up he’d kick my face in,” Cas says offhandedly. It sounds like the kind of threat that won’t be followed through on, so Dean dismisses it as harmless teasing between brothers. He finds himself wanting to look out for Cas, to find whoever gave him the beating and kick _their_ face in.

“Does that seem like something you’d be interested in?” Dean asks as they pass the stage. Cas doesn’t answer, but he looks away bashfully. He hears Charlie call him as he swipes his card to open the backstage door, but he ignores her. If it’s really important, she’ll find him.

Backstage, a group of people gather to await their turns on the stage. Gabriel’s usually featured on Sundays, mostly because he doesn’t come across as too intimidating and is in fact one of the best professionals Dean’s ever worked with. The people chatter amongst themselves, Doms holding onto leashes and checking equipment.

After asking around for a moment, Dean motions Cas back to his side from where the boy had been standing by the door. They push through the small crowd until Dean finally sees Gabriel, standing backstage and talking animatedly to Michael, whose subs are nowhere in sight. They seem to be arguing, but that’s nothing new, so Dean doesn't hesitate to break the conversation up.

“Gabe, there’s someone here to see you,” he interrupts. For a moment it looks like they’re going to ignore him, but Gabriel finally turns away from Michael, who scowls and leaves, likely to find his two boys.

“Newbie?” Gabe asks, his eyes scanning the group of people nearby.

“Someone called Cas,” Dean replies carefully. He watches as Gabriel’s gaze finds Cas, who’s standing just behind Dean. He looks angry now, and Dean decides to stay and keep an eye on them, just in case. “I found him downstairs getting roughed up by Alastair.”

“How the fuck did he get down there?” Cas has apparently caught onto the fact that they’re talking about him and is looking down at his shoes, hands stuffed in his pockets. “And why was he with _Alastair_?”

“Why don’t you ask him? All he’d say was that he needed to talk to you, and that Alastair had told him you were down there.”

“How did you even know I was here?” Gabriel asks, turning to face his brother and beckoning him forward when Castiel seems reluctant to approach him.

“Luke told me,” Cas replies, his voice firm even though his head is bowed in what Dean tries not to think of as natural submissiveness.

“And who gave you that black eye?” Gabe’s voice is harsh but Dean can see the way his hinds have balled into fists. Dean’s sure that Gabe’s just as ready to punch whoever did this as much as he is, if not more. Cas rocks back on his heels, his hands still shoved into his pockets.

“Luke.” Gabriel sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair.

“Dean, could you give us a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean takes his cue and walks away from the pair and back towards the small group, glancing around for familiar faces. He smiles when he sees Charlie standing next to Hannah, Jo kneeling at their feet in what looks suspiciously like Leia’s slave bikini. Charlie grins broadly and waves him over when she sees him.

“Dean! I wanted to show you Jo’s new present,” she explains, gesturing down at her sub in excitement. Jo grins up at him and winks, pushing out her chest a little more to display the artful metalwork and, by proxy, her barely concealed breasts. Dean rolls his eyes and claps Charlie on the back.

“I sincerely hope it was worth the amount you probably paid for it,” he says earnestly. Honestly, that thing looks ridiculously well-made, not just something Charlie picked up in a costume shop. She waves him away unconcernedly.

“Someone owed me a few favors. They made it work.” Dean snorts. Charlie’s the best hacker he knows, and he’s pretty sure she could get anyone to owe her a few favors in a matter of minutes if she wanted to.

“I’m sure. Sorry for ignoring you earlier, I had something to take care of.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the dreamy guy following you around back here, would it?” She asks, her eyes flicking behind him like she expects Cas to still be there.

“He was downstairs with Alastair. I had to get him to someone who could get him home.” Dean doesn’t mention the details; they’re not his to share even if he actually knew most of them. Charlie nods. She gets it, thank God.

“Hey, are you giving a demonstration tonight?” Dean questions, glancing back down at Jo. There are a few yellowing bruises on her shoulders and he’s sure there would be more on her back if she were to turn around. Charlie nods.

“Yeah, I’m helping Hannah out with hers. I wanted to know if you would mind watching Jo for me?”

“Not at all. When are you up?” Hannah turns away from the man she’d been talking to at Charlie’s following nudge, and glances toward the clock.

“About… five minutes, if they get off the stage on time.” Dean nods and takes Jo’s leash when it’s handed to him. Charlie leaves him with a hug, one that’s sort of out of place but returned anyway, because Charlie’s like a sister to him and Dean doesn’t get to see her as much as he’d like these days. She and Hannah depart, presumably off to collect Hannah's sub and prepare.

“So,” Jo says almost as soon as Charlie’s out of earshot. “How’s Sammy?”

“Sam’s fine,” Dean replies steadily, not looking down at her. Jo’s not allowed to talk to him, he knows, but she’s going to do it anyway no matter what he says. She knows just as well as he does that he’s going to be telling Charlie. Dean’s almost tempted to ask what’s so great about Charlie’s punishments for Jo to be actively seeking them out.

“Is he still dating Jess?”

“As far as I know.” Jo’s one of his best friends outside the club, but he’s not willing to indulge her inside it more than he absolutely has to. They’re both painfully aware that she used to have a crush on him, and that Sam used to have a crush on her. They’ve all moved on by now, thank god, but it’s still something that hangs between them at times like this, Jo kneeling at his feet in an imitation of what could have been if he’d seen her less as a sister and more as a lover.

Dean’s thankfully distracted when he sees Gabriel towing Cas beside him as they make their way towards the exit. Dean lifts his hand in farewell, and Gabriel returns the gesture. Cas nods at him gratefully as he fumbles to keep up with his brother, and then they’re gone. Dean absently hopes he can find someone to fill in for Gabe tonight if he can’t make it back, but finds himself somewhat distracted by the sway of Cas' hips as he disappears through the door.

“Who was _that_?” Jo asks, and Dean doesn’t even bother replying to her, leaning back against the wall and resolutely ignoring the new fantasy of his hand replacing Gabriel’s on the back of the kid’s neck.

 

Nearly two weeks later and Dean’s at Purgatory’s bar again, work done for the day and ready to go home after a drink or two. He hasn’t seen any familiar faces yet, his day too clogged up with paperwork and bills to get out at the usual time. As he downs the last of his whiskey, nodding in thanks to the bartender, Dean glances around one last time and, to his surprise, catches sight of a familiar face. One he hadn’t exactly expected to see again.

Slipping off his stool, Dean threads through the crowd, keeping that head of dark hair in his vision. The music of Purgatory thrums around him as he moves, and for a moment he lets himself believe that he’s chasing someone who belongs to him, who he gets to keep once he’s caught.

When Dean finally reaches the boy, he pulls him away, accidentally backing him against a wall. Cas gasps sharply as his back connects with the surface, his eyes wide and panicked until he sees Dean’s face pressed inches from his. Then, he has the audacity to _smile_.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asks, trying not to sound angry—he’s _not_. He’s worried, because the last time Cas was here he got knocked around, and he doesn’t want it to happen again. He can’t deny, though, that seeing Cas here _does_ something to him, sets something burning deep in his belly because he can just imagine Cas on his knees and looking up at him with those big blue eyes. But that’s not why Cas is here, surely.

“Looking for you,” Cas replies, and Dean wants him on his knees and begging for anything Dean wants to give him because he _wants_ Dean. But he can’t not without checking Cas’s age, so Dean takes a careful step back and crosses his arms over his chest. Cas slumps against the wall and looks a little disappointed, but he still holds Dean’s gaze evenly.

“Give me your ID,” Dean says, as curtly as he can manage. If he’s right about Cas' age, he’ll make him leave. If he’s wrong… well. Then things could get interesting. But he’s not about to go back on his moral code for a pair of pretty eyes and a niggling sense of possibility that’s probably just the effects of alcohol.

 Cas looks thrown at the request, even as he fumbles in his back pocket for his wallet and passes it over to Dean with a confused look. Dean glances down at the driver’s license that proclaims that Castiel James Novak was born on September 18th, 1980.

“This is a really good fake,” Dean says with grudging approval, because it really is, and it must have cost Cas a small fortune. “It’s still fake, though.”

“It’s not—” Cas protests, but Dean raises a hand to cut him off and takes the fake license out of the wallet, tucking it into his pocket for safekeeping. Cas scowls at him, and Dean wants to do terrible, terrible things to a kid who isn’t even twenty-one yet.

“How old are you? And _don’t_ lie to me.” Castiel pauses and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he draws his lip between his teeth and shoves his hands in his pockets, like he did i front of Gabriel the last time he was here.

“Twenty.” Not as bad as Dean thought, then. Cas presses up against him him then, close enough that if Dean really wanted to, all he would have to do is lean down three or four inches until their lips met. Cas looks up innocently, his fingers playing with one of the buttons on Dean’s shirt, and Dean wants to grab Cas by the back of the neck and _take_. Instead, when Cas leans up on his tiptoes, Dean grabs him by the hair and holds not quite tight enough to hurt as Cas strains towards him with a wounded look in his eyes. He tries to pull away, Dean can feel it, but he’s held fast by the grip in his soft, curly hair.

“Can I have my ID back?” Cas murmurs, his hands still pressed tight to Dean’s abdomen. Dean’s lips quirk up in a small smile, Cas’ breath wafting hot and minty over his lips.

“Come back when you don’t need a fake one and we’ll talk,” Dean says, drawing Cas just a fraction of an inch closer. Their lips are brushing, but it’s not enough contact to be a real kiss, and Dean can't focus on anything but the intoxicating feeling of having this boy pressed tight up against him. Cas' eyes are closed now, and his breathing has shallowed. There’s so much that Dean wants, but he can’t have it. Not yet. So he loosens his grip, and before Cas can lean up that last little bit, Dean shoves him away. Not hard, but enough that Cas seems to get the message.

With one last, long look that Dean can’t quite decipher, Castiel finally turns and walks back through the crowd, toward the exit. Dean watches him go with one hand braced on the wall and the other carding through his own hair, still smelling like Cas' shampoo.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dean gets the call at four in the morning. He’s deeply asleep, sprawled out across his entire bed, clutching one pillow to his chest and drooling into another. When the phone rings he jerks up, flailing around until his hand whacks the wood of his dresser. He hisses in pain even as he grabs his phone and swipes across the screen.

“Hello?” He says groggily into the phone as he cradles his injured hand to his chest. His voice is scratchy and hoarse with sleep and disuse.

“Is this Dean Winchester?” A woman’s voice asks from the opposite end of the line. Dean scowls and runs a hand through his hair. He wants to be an asshole and say something rude, but chances are if this lady is calling at ass o’clock in the morning, something important has happened.

“Yes. Speaking?”

“I’m Nurse Allen, calling from Boulder Community Hospital in Colorado. You’ve been listed as John Winchester’s emergency contact, and I’m calling to inform you that he’s currently in critical condition.” Dean’s heart stops beating for a moment, then starts to pound alarmingly as he sits up straight, pressing the phone closer to his ear and hoping against all reason that he’d heard the nurse wrong.

“What happened?” He asks, stumbling slightly over his words.

“I’m afraid your father was in a car accident. He was driving while intoxicated and flipped his car on the side of the road. The ambulance managed to get to him in time, but there’s a chance he might not make it.” The nurse sounds apologetic; Dean wants to assure her that there’s no need to be. He’s been operating under the assumption that his dad was dead for the last eight years, and he’d had no plans of ever changing that assumption. “You were listed as his next of kin. He asked for you.”

“Okay. Um… thanks,” Dean manages to get out, leaning heavily against the bars of his headboard. He doesn’t know what to say; there’s too much going through his head and none of it is appropriate to say to a nurse he doesn’t know over the phone.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Winchester.” The woman sounds uncomfortable, and Dean doesn’t blame her. “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

The call ends, but Dean doesn’t lie back down. He’s too upset to go back to sleep—he’s built a life here in California, far away from Dad and his judgement and ideals, and Dean’s barely even thought about him in the last few years. It’s not fair that after so long, after he’s been through so much, John needs him to pay for medical expenses and Baby’s repairs and probably whatever rehab the doctors are going to try and make him go through. The only times John has ever needed him have been for money, and Dean hadn’t expected anything different this time, if he’s being honest with himself. But this is too far. Too much.

Dean doesn’t sleep that night; instead, he goes into his home office and flicks on the lamp, working on finances in the dim, yellow glow. At six, the lightbulb flickers out and dies. Dean barely notices, too wrapped up in next month’s finances for the club to do anything about it besides slip on his glasses—a thick-rimmed pair that aren’t particularly fashionable, but get the job done—when he doesn’t want to put his contacts in.

Dean keeps working until ten, and resolutely doesn’t think about anything other than salaries and income and taxes, even as he downs three cups of coffee and does all the laundry he can without going to the dry cleaner wile his mind stays carefully blank. It’s a Tuesday, which isn’t exactly Purgatory’s most popular weeknight. Dean doesn’t technically have to go in all day, unless he really wants to. At this point, he’s considering going to the club and sweeping the floors to make himself forget everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. It’s a tempting thought, but ultimately pointless.

Unfortunately, at about noon, Dean finds himself sitting back down at his desk and booting up his laptop. Boulder General Hospital, he learns, is a fifteen hour drive from where he lives in California, a three hour plane ride, and a six hour train ride. None of the three options sound particularly pleasurable to him. Dean sighs and rests his face in his hands for a moment, propping his elbows on his desk and muffling a groan into his palms.

There’s no choice for him here. It’s a Morton’s fork, something that Sammy had mentioned offhandedly on the phone a few years back while he was in law school, and John Winchester seems to have been cruelly fond of them over the course of his life. If Dean goes, John will expect him to pay any medical bills he may have, along with whatever insults he decides to fling Dean’s way. The last time they spoke, it hadn’t exactly been a civil conversation.

Alternatively, if Dean stays, John might send the medical bill anyway. Then he’ll feel guilty over it for God knows how long, despite the fact that he doesn’t owe John anything. And what if, like the nurse said, he doesn’t make it? What if Dean’s father dies in some hospital in Colorado, alone and in pain? Dean tries to tell himself that it’s nothing more than he deserves, with the way John treated him and Sam, but in the end he can’t convince himself. He knows if John dies without him there, he’ll never forgive himself. Dean fights the urge to yell into his hands again, lifting his head up instead and reaching for the phone.

Sam’s still living in Palo Alto with Jess, finishing up his law degree, and the last time Dean talked to him, he’d been preparing to take the bar exam. There’s probably no worse time for this news for Sam, but Dean needs his brother’s advice, for once in his godforsaken life. He’s willing to be selfish about this. So he takes his phone and hits the speed dial, letting the familiar motions soothe his rising nerves.

“Hey, Dean, what’s up? Sam answers casually, like he’s in the middle of something that only needs half his attention. Dean swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and coughs once, trying to think of the right words. “Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” he finds himself replying. Dean settles back in his chair heavily, wondering how to continue. “I got a call last night. Dad’s in the hospital.”

Sam doesn't say anything. All Dean can hear is the sound of his breathing over the line, and he can tell that Sam isn’t feeling very relaxed anymore.

“He was in a car crash. Drunk. They told me he might not make it.” Sam is still quiet, so quiet. Static fizzles in Dean’s ear.

“You’re going to go, aren’t you.” It’s not a question, and both of them know it.

“I don't really have a choice, Sam.” Tension is building in his words, and Dean knows that they’re going to fight about this, but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from letting it happen. There are things that need to be said between them, words hanging heavy in the late summer air.

“Of course you have a choice, Dean! He’s treated you like shit ever since you were a kid, and now you’re gonna go crawling back to him to take whatever he throws at you lying down.”

“Sam, I’m not—”

“Yeah, Dean, you are. You’re gonna go and cry at his bedside, and promise to pay his bills and tell him that everything’s gonna be fine, and as soon as he’s healed he’s gonna take off in the Impala and you’re not gonna see him for another eight years, until he needs to be bailed out of fucking jail again!” Sam’s almost yelling now, his rage nearly palpable in the cool air of Dean’s office.

“He could be dying, Sam.” It’s a weak argument. Both of them know it.

“Sure, he _could_ be. Or maybe he’s just got a few fractures and a bad concussion. Either way, Dean, he’s never been there for us. Why should we be there for him now?”

“He’s family, Sam, that’s gotta _mean_ something to you.” They’re both pissed now. Dean stands up and starts pacing behind his desk, the phone pressed to his ear with one hand and the other crossed across his chest, resting in the crook of his other arm.

“No, it doesn’t. He’s not worth it, Dean. You can’t honestly call him family after what he’s said to you.”

“He’s our father.” They’ve had this argument before. Under different circumstances, maybe, but there’s nothing Sam’s saying that Dean hasn’t told himself, or heard from his brother a dozen times before. He knows that what Sam’s telling him is true, he knows how it’s going to play out if he goes to Colorado, but there’s a part of him that’s always been loyal to his Dad, no matter what, and it’s a part of him he can’t seem to shake.

“He’s a bastard. You’re so blind when it comes to him, Dean. He never cared about you, never cared about either of us. All that matters to him is his stupid, delusional revenge scheme, and we all know how that went.” The words drip rage and bitterness.

“He loved us, Sam, he did the best he could.” _Lie, lie, lie_ , whispers the part of him that isn’t loyal enough.

“Sure, Dean. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Sam finishes, disgust in his voice, and then hangs up. Dean’s left with an empty silence coming from his phone and a dark, ugly pit in the bottom of his stomach.

Castiel wakes up to shouting. Again. It feels like he hasn’t gotten a moment of peace and quiet inside the apartment in months, ever since Luke moved back in. Right now, they’re arguing about money... or maybe politics—there’s actually no point in trying to figure it out anymore. He rolls out of bed, grabbing the first sweater he sees and a pair of jeans, and ducks into the bathroom to shower while it’s blessedly empty. One of the downsides of sharing a two bedroom apartment with three of his siblings is that there’s very rarely any privacy.

Anna’s still sleeping when he leaves the room. He double checks the alarm on his phone to make sure it will go off in the next ten minutes, so that he has some hope of getting her to school on time. The shouting continues as he showers, scrubbing quickly and efficiency, not even waiting for the water to get warm before he steps in. Warm water’s a luxury he hasn’t induced in in weeks, their income too low to afford it.

While Castiel is rinsing his hair, he hears the sharp slam of the front door, and then a sudden silence from the kitchen. Gabriel is probably the one who stormed out, leaving Cas alone to deal with Anna and Luke. As he steps out of the shower and dries himself off, he tries not to sigh. It’s a typical morning for the household, but it’s no less exhausting than it’s ever been. He wants to crawl back under the blankets on the couch that serves as his bed, when Anna’s home, and go back to sleep, and it’s only six thirty in the morning.

“Anna, get up,” he barks as he re-enters their shared room. Anna groans, her head buried underneath one of her own pillows, red hair frizzy and sticking up haphazardly from beneath it.

“No,” she grumbles. Castiel _does_ sigh this time, and subtly grasps the bottom of her covers, giving her one more chance to get up on her own.

“Come on, Anna, you have to go to school.” The only response is her nestling deeper into the old mattress, pulling the pillow down harder over her head. Fine. Grasping the blankets tightly, Cas takes a step back and yanks as hard as he can. Anna yelps and swears loudly, reaching to grab the blankets before they’re gone and twisting just the wrong way on the thin bed, falling to the ground in an undignified heap, her hair falling over her face.

“Screw you, Castiel.” she snaps, pulling up the strap of her tank top.

“That’s nice. Now get ready, we have to leave in ten minutes.” He leaves her on the floor, still muttering curses under her breath, and heads into the kitchen. Luke’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, halfway through a beer. There’s one bottle (empty) to the left of him, and one bottle (full) to the right. Cas resolutely tries not to make eye contact as he rifles through the fridge, trying to find something that isn’t too terribly out of date. Behind another case of beer and a bottle of vodka, he finally finds an apple that’s too squishy for comfort, but still better than its companions.

“Why the fuck do you even bother with her?” Luke mumbles from the table, words slurred together.. There’s a sneering, unpleasant sort of laughter to his tone that makes Castiel clench his jaw in irritation. He keeps his back turned, grabbing the plastic water bottle he refills every night and shutting the fridge.

“I don’t know what you mean.” If Gabriel were here, he’d tell Cas to walk away, to not rise to the bait. But Gabe isn’t here and there’s nothing stopping him. The dark thrill Castiel gets whenever he talks to his oldest brother is rising up, twisting in his gut like a viper. Castiel wants to _fight_ , but it’s a fight he knows he’s going to lose, so he backs down.

“It’s not like graduating’s gonna do anything for her. Mark my words, Cassy, she’ll wind up pregnant on the streets by the time she’s twenty.” Luke laughs and takes another swig of beer, propping his feet up on the table as Cas’ blood boils in his veins. Before he can say anything in retaliation, however, Anna steps into the kitchen, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair neatly pulled back. Her school uniform is crisp and clean, standing stark against the dull, dirty walls of their apartment.

“Fuck off, Luke,” she says. “Come on, Cas. I’ve got your keys.”

They traipse down the three flights of stairs in their shitty apartment building in silence, nodding to the doorman, whose only job seems to be sitting next to the door all day and occasionally making trips to the half-broken vending machines next to the lobby. He nods somberly in return before tipping his head back and going to sleep.

“Can I drive?” Anna asks, like she always does, and promptly climbs into the passenger seat of the shitty 1998 Civic. It breaks down routinely once a month, and after a few years of it, Anna sometimes swears that she and the car have synced up. It might be true; her predictions for when the car’s going to stall are always strangely accurate.

After two tries, the engine finally starts, and Cas starts the perilous journey towards Wilson High School. Every pothole in the road makes the engine sputter and something in the trunk bang loudly, and as he navigates the few speed bumps he grits his teeth, willing the Civic not to break down.

“Can you take the bus home?” He asks Anna just before she gets out of the car to join the group of girls that loiter outside the school on a daily basis. “I’ve got class until four.”

“I’m going over to Hester’s,” she replies, ducking smoothly out of the car. She very carefully doesn’t look at Castiel. “She’s letting me spend the night.” She walks off without another word, and Cas watches her go with a mingling sense of relief and dread. She won’t be home tonight, which means that she’s out of Luke’s line of fire, but that means bad things for him. Especially since there’s still another pack and a half of beer in the fridge.

Castiel puts it out of his mind, concentrating on the road in front of him as he navigates his way to the café a few blocks away from the school. He works a shift there every morning before whatever class he has, then heads to one of the restaurants next to the community college he attends for another shift every night. Sometimes he walks dogs for the women across the street, too, but that’s mostly on weekends, when he has a little more free time.

Gabriel works at least two jobs, Cas knows, but he doesn’t really pay attention to what they are. In the morning, he takes the bus downtown to Shoreline, the local tourist trap, where he works at the chocolate factory. Then there’s his night job, which he stopped trying to hide from Cas that night last month, when Luke had beat him half-unconscious and then started in on Anna. He still remembers that night at Purgatory with a mixed bag of emotions.

For one thing, there had been that man, Alastair. He’d looked untrustworthy, something greasy and sinister about him. But Cas had been so taken aback by the sheer abundance of leather and nudity and things he’d never seen outside of porn or his own fantasies that he’d followed the man down into what he called the Pit with barely a protest. God knows that hadn’t gone very well. His ribs had ached for days afterward.

And then there was the man who took him to Gabriel. Dean. Dean, who walked like he expected Cas to follow him and didn’t care if he were left behind. Dean, who stared at him as he was dragged out by Gabriel with hooded eyes, predatory but not malicious. Castiel was first intrigued, then aroused, then nervous. He had wanted more—he still wants more, there was something intoxicating about the look Dean gave him, even over a month later—and so he’d gone back to Purgatory. Needless to say, that hadn’t ended like he’d expected. At all.

“Hey, Cas!” Hannah greets him as he walks into the kitchen through the back door of the café. He jolts himself out of his thoughts and ties on an apron, very determinedly telling himself that he’s not going to think about Dean or Purgatory or anything other than work and school until he gets home tonight.

It works, mostly. His shift passes quickly, from seven to ten that morning, and when he takes off the blue apron and counts his tips, Cas has made about thirty dollars. It’s not great, but Anna has an away meet coming up and she needs to donate seventy dollars to be able to go. This should take care of the last of it, if nothing awful happens.

He waves a quick goodbye to Hannah before piling back in the Civic and easing out of the parking lot towards the city college. He has two classes today, and he can’t seem to find a shred of excitement in himself about it. It’s on days like these that Castiel wonders why he’s even going to college at all; it’s just an unnecessary expense that takes up the time that he could be spending working. The tuition is slowly increasing the longer he attends, and even with the partial scholarship he’s earned, it still isn’t enough to make a significant difference. College itself, however, is enough to make a huge difference in their funds for the apartment: electricity, wi-fi, water. Most days, Cas feels like he’s bleeding his family dry on a pipe dream.

_What if Anna wants to go to school?_ Cas shifts gears, his eyes trained on the road in front of him. _She could actually go somewhere, do something with her life, and if we don’t have enough money that’s never going to happen._

_Stop_ , he tells himself in the same moment. _You deserve an education as much as she does._  

The other voice, the one that sounds too much like Luke to be comfortable, mocks back. _Yeah, right. Like you’re going to end up doing anything with an Art History degree._

_Shut up_. Castiel turns on the radio, not caring what station it’s on, just to drown out his own thoughts. _I’m allowed to want things_.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ crows through the shitty speakers. “We’re moving on with our Zeppelin marathon, coming back by popular demand with _Kashmir_.”

Cas smiles down at the dashboard and turns up the volume as the opening chords of his favorite song blares out between bursts of static. Not everything, he concedes, is as awful as it could be.

Dean calls Benny later that night.

“Look, man, I might have to take some time off this week. Just a couple days at most, and I’ll be back by Monday.” Benny’s silent for a few moments, as is his way, before speaking.

“I’ll hold down the fort, brother. You sure whatever it is you’re gonna do is important?” Dean drags a hand across his jaw, feeling the stubble that he hasn’t bothered to shave in a few days.

“I’ve gotta go, Benny.” He dodges the question quietly, hoping that Benny’s perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that Dean does not want to talk about it. Not right now, maybe not ever, if he’s lucky.

“All right. See you in a few, then. Call me if you need me.” Dean doesn’t know why he worried. He’s been friends with Benny since he was a teenager. Hell, he’s known Benny since before he knew Cain. He’s also probably closer to Benny than anyone else, even Sam. Maybe especially Sam.

“Will do. Thanks, Benny.”

“No problem.” Benny reassures him, and then hangs up. Dean sighs, long and heavy, and begins to pack his bag.

Castiel arrives home to the smell of beer and cigarettes hanging heavy in the air. There’s a sick feeling in his gut that’s been building since he clocked out at the diner, a feeling that’s being valiantly ignored as he shuts the door behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. He shuffles down the hall, peering first into his and Anna’s room to make sure nothing’s been broken during the hours he’s been gone. There’s no one on the couch in front of him, so Gabriel is still out, and Luke must be in either the tiny kitchen or his own bedroom, the one Gabe had occupied until several months ago, until Luke showed up in the middle of the night with a duffle bag in one hand and a half-empty six pack in the other.

Cas gently places the small bag of groceries he’d picked up on the way home down onto the dresser next to the door; if Luke decides to spring on him he doesn’t want to be cleaning up broken glass later with bruised ribs or a black eye.

“Welcome home, Cassy,” Luke slurs from the kitchen, making Cas flinch in surprise and his skin crawl at the nickname. He still can’t see him, but now Cas can’t pretend that Luke’s not there and retreat into his own bedroom for the night. “How was work?”

“Work was fine,” he replies cautiously, walking slowly into the kitchen to assess the day’s damage. When he sees it, the pit in his stomach gets bigger. There’s at least a half a pack of empty beer bottles strewn about, some on the floor, some dripping their last dregs onto the stained wood of the kitchen table. Luke is sprawled in a chair, in the same clothes he’s been wearing since the last time he decided to shower, and there’s no evidence that he’s moved all day other than the two bottles sitting forlornly next to the TV.

“How was _school_?” Luke jeers, his flat, blue gaze piercing through Castiel in ways that make him more than uncomfortable.

“School was fine.” He’s about to retreat back to the hallway to grab the groceries when Luke suddenly pushes himself to his feet, swaying minutely and balancing himself against the table. Cas' stomach plummets.

_Don’t move don’t provoke him don’t blink._ Cas repeats it to himself over and over as Luke approaches him slowly, a predator knowing that its prey is trapped, and Castiel—the hunted—restraining himself so he’ll be granted a quick death. Of course, Luke is too smart for that, even drunk. Cas has always had a temper, one of the few things all the Novak siblings have in common, and Luke knows just how to dig under his skin.

“How’s that whore sister of ours?” He muses idly, thumbs hooking in the pockets of his dirty jeans. Cas doesn’t dignify him with a response, keeping his gaze stubbornly on the floor. “No? How ‘bout you then, Castiel? Still as much as a faggot as you were yesterday?”

A deep, low growl works its way out of Cas' chest. Every day, it’s the same thing, but every day it still manages to get to him. He seems to be Luke’s favorite to torment because unlike Gabriel, he makes himself stand there and take it, and unlike Anna, he’s not difficult to get a reaction out of. “Shut up, Luke.”

Cas hears the dull crack of Luke’s fist hitting his cheek before he feels the actual pain, but as soon as he does he groans, bringing his hand to his face and cradling his jaw as Luke steps uncomfortably close.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, fag?” _Don’t react don’t react don’t react._

“Go to hell, Luke.” It’s a mistake. Castiel gets a fist in his gut for the trouble, and as he doubles up wheezing, dropping to his knees on the floor, he knows that it’s going to be a long time until Gabe gets home.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The drive to Colorado is long. Like, _two days and a night in a motel room_ long. At first, Dean listens to music, hooking his phone up to the car he drives but doesn’t love, and sings along half-heartedly to Zeppelin and Metallica and the classics he’d thought he’d forgotten. It gets old, though, bringing back memories Dean can’t stomach. So he turns on the radio to whatever channel is already playing and tunes it out, grateful for the background noise. As he passes the Utah border, however, Dean switches it off, content to drive in silence for the remaining hours of the day. Dean passes mountains and deserts and empty roads that stretch on for miles, littered with nothing but dirt and rocks and the occasional dried-out bush. The few cars he sees rush by in a blur of headlights, people Dean’s never met and probably never will.

He tries not to think. He tosses and turns on the rickety motel bed later that night, ignoring the questionable sounds from the next room over, and very resolutely doesn’t think about what he’s driving towards. Of course, as he passes the border into Colorado the next day, that becomes increasingly more difficult.

By some stroke of luck, or gift from the gods, Dean gets a phone call about three hours out from his destination, diverting his train of thought away from the impending storm-clouds. He answers without checking the caller ID, his bluetooth chirping in his ear.

“Hey, Dean-o!” Charlie exclaims from the other end of the call. Dean grins when he hears her voice, his spirits lifting slightly at the obvious cheer in her voice.

“Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

“Well, Jo just came home with burger meat and that beer you like so much, so I was wondering if you wanted to come over and kick her ass at Call of Duty.” There’s a thud, and a barely audible ‘ _Ow!_ ’ from Charlie as she seems to drop the phone. Dean waits in amused silence as Charlie picks it up again, hearing Jo’s snickers in the background.

“Come on, Dean, I haven't seen you in weeks. I’m starting to think you’ve met someone, trying to keep them to yourself for as long as you can.”

“Definitely not,” Dean says solemnly, his good mood draining away again suddenly. “I’d love to, Charlie, you know that, but I can’t.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, disappointed. “Are you okay? Is something up?”

“I’m in Colorado,” Dean explains, “On my way to see my Dad.”

“Oh,” she repeats, softly this time. “Are you—is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, I guess. Dad… he was in an accident. Car crash. That’s the only reason I’m going,” he admits. “He could be dying.”

“Take care of yourself, okay? And you’re definitely coming over when you’re back for some zombie therapy. You don’t even have to talk about your feelings if you don’t want to,” Charlie teases. It’s exactly what Dean needs to hear, and he can feel the smile returning to his face, albeit smaller than before. Charlie has been one of his best friends for years—she always knows how to make him feel better.

“Thanks, Charlie. Tell Jo I said hi.” The car flies by a sign that loudly proclaims Boulder to be just under 100 miles away.

“Will do. And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Get me something from the gift shop.” Dean laughs, startled, and promises he will. He can hear Charlie’s smile over the phone as she bids him farewell. With considerable more cheer, he turns his gaze back to the road and switches on the radio again. With any luck, he won’t hit much traffic going into Boulder.

He doesn’t, and before he’s ready, Dean finds himself pulling into the parking lot of Boulder General Hospital. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, so he leans back into the comforting leather of the car that isn’t his Impala and breathes. In, out. In, out. He doesn’t feel ready for what he knows is coming, but there’s no going back now. So Dean opens the door of his car and steps out, locking it behind him. He can do this. _He can do this._

The hospital is a generic one. Dean hates it. It’s too clean and too bright, and the smell of antiseptic hangs heavily in the air as he walks up to the visitor’s desk.

“I’m here to see John Winchester?” He says to the lady working the desk. She smiles kindly at him and looks back to the computer, the keyboard clacking as she looks John up.

“May I see your ID, please?” She asks with a patented Customer Service smile. Dean fumbles in his pocket and tugs out his wallet, flashing his ID. He waits as she fills out a nametag for him, then hands him a visitor’s pass. “Keep this on while you’re in there, please. Mr. Winchester is in room 336, I’ll alert his doctor that you’re here. Let us know if you need anything, sir.”

She dismisses him with another smile, and Dean leaves the desk gladly. The gift shop is close, and he ducks in on his way to the elevator, remembering his promise to Charlie. He browses the shop, but nothing jumps out at him until he sees the rows and rows of stuffed animals tucked away in the corner. In the front is a small bunny, wearing a stuffed hat with stars on it and holding an equally-stuffed wand. It makes Dean chuckle, so he grabs it from the stand and heads up to the cashier.

He wants to pretend that that’s it, he can go now, but he knows that he can’t just leave. So he presses the ‘up’ arrow for the elevator and waits with several others for it to arrive. If possible, the elevator smells worse than the lobby; full of too many perfumes that make Dean gag.

John Winchester’s room is down a long hall, past dozens of other rooms that Dean catches glimpses of. He contemplates grabbing a dish, just in case his rolling stomach decides to revolt, but discards the idea as he reaches room 336.

“You must be Dean,” comes a voice from behind him. Dean spins around to see a man probably a few years older than himself walking towards him. He looks nice enough, with his hair graying at his temples and his white coat pristine, but Dean’s still wary. He’s never liked hospitals, and he hasn’t been in one in years added from regular checkups. He doesn’t know what to expect.

“I’m Doctor Morgan,” the man says, shaking Dean’s hand once he’s close enough. “I’m your father’s surgeon. He’s probably asleep right now, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you when he wakes up.”

Dean refrains from making a scathing comment and nods at the doctor. “So everything went well?”

“As well as can be expected. Look, Mr. Winchester, I’ll be frank. Your father suffered several severe internal injuries, and we patched them up as best we could, but it’s going to take a few days until we’re sure that it’s safe to release him. I’m sorry to pull you away for so long, I know you don’t live close, but it’s in your father’s best interests to keep him here until we can be sure of his recovery.”

“Of course,” Dean says. He’s running on autopilot, by now. He doesn’t want to think about staying here, about talking to John. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, I need you to sign a few things. You’re his emergency contact, and we can’t be sure how bad his concussion is until he wakes up for an extended period of time, so for now you’ll need to sign off on his medical care.” The doctor leads Dean into the room and takes a clipboard off the desk in the corner, handing it over along with a pen. “I’ll leave you with this for a while, I have some rounds to do. If you have any questions, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Doctor Morgan departs with a smile, and Dean stumbles into one of the chairs next to the bed, staring at his father. John Winchester, once so broad and fearsome, looks diminished against the white of the hospital sheets. His beard is overgrown and scraggly, and his shoulders seem to have shrunk in size. Dean thinks, that if his father were to stand up, he would be shorter than he once was.

It’s been eight years since Dean’s seen his father. Eight years since he was a stupid twenty-four year old running on adrenaline and beer and one-night stands. The last time he’d talked to John, Dean had called him out on everything; from leaving Dean to raise Sam and himself on eight bucks of groceries a week, to always being drunk when he was with them. John had screamed right back, telling him that he was worthless, ungrateful, that he should have left him in California when he had the chance. Not that he’d said it out loud at the time, but Dean had agreed. He still does, most days.

Now, John looks frail. If Dean were to push him, he’d shatter. As he thinks this, John’s eyes finally flutter open, and they focus on Dean immediately.

“Dean.” His voice is raspy, but Dean can already feel his spine straightening as he sits up in his chair. “What the hell are you doing here?”

And, oh, _there’s_ the anger. Dean has to force himself not to snarl out something rude, but when John scowls at him and turns his head away, it gets exponentially more difficult.

“I’m paying your fucking medical bills,” he bites out. John snorts, rolling his eyes.

“It’s the least you could do, you ungrateful—”

“Ah! Mister Winchester, you’re awake.” John is interrupted by Doctor Morgan, who shoots Dean a sympathetic look. “I’ll have a nurse come in in a few minutes, but how are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine,” John says sarcastically. “If _he_ would get out, I’d be fit as a fiddle.”

“Fine,” Dean snaps, rising from the chair. He’s out the door before anyone can say another word, and when he’s made it into the hallway, he leans heavily against the wall.

“Family trouble?” The doctor emerges from John’s room and shuts the door behind him.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.

“I know how that goes. Look, Dean, why don’t you go back to wherever you’re staying for the night? I know how rough this kind of thing can be, and you look like you could do with some rest. We’ll alert you if we get any more information.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Dean smiles gratefully, handing back the clipboard and pen. He’s been relieved of duty for the rest of the night, and if he wants to be able to handle facing John again tomorrow, he _will_ need to get some sleep. After all, it’s not like any of this is going to be easy.

Castiel is alone in the apartment, for once. Anna is at school, Gabriel is at work, and Luke had been gone when Cas came home from his only class of the day. It’s nice, he decides, having some peace and quiet. He gets to sit on Anna’s bed, which smells too strongly of perfume, and eat a fresh apple for once, his aging laptop on his lap.

His mind keeps drifting back to Dean and that night in Purgatory. It’s ridiculous, how much he’s thought about that, but Cas can’t seem to help it. Dean’s parting words are ringing in his ears like a promise. _“Come back and we’ll talk.”_

It’s two weeks until Cas' twenty-first birthday. Two weeks, he’s decided, until he takes Dean up on his offer. He’s sitting on the bed and he’s looking down at his computer, and he’s thinking about Dean. So he does what anyone would do.

He looks at porn.

Castiel feels a little ridiculous, opening up a private window and searching for BDSM porn, but what better way to learn? Except learning isn’t really the point, not when he watches the first video, of a man probably not much older than himself getting teased mercilessly with a vibrator, hogtied to a cross, and then fucked within an inch of his life. Learning is definitely not the point when Cas eases his pants down, stroking himself hard and fast, easing the way with a small handful of lotion from the dresser.

_Fuck_ , he hasn’t had time to do this in weeks. Castiel groans through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on his laptop as he fucks up into his fist, swearing loudly when a man onscreen jerks forward, painting a boy’s face with come. His imagination supplies the rest; Castiel on his knees, spit running down his chin as he looks up adoringly into green eyes. A hand carding through his hair, yanking his head back, baring his neck… 

Castiel comes with a shout. He bucks up into his hand, striping his shirt with white but luckily avoiding his computer, then sags against the wall in relief, eyes fluttering shut. They open again when a loud moan comes from his speakers, and as quickly as he can, Cas shuts the tab, face flaming. He’s embarrassed, but that was the hardest he’s come in a long time, as evidenced by the new stains on his t-shirt. Castiel cleans himself up quickly, and soon he’s back in his original position on the bed, back against the wall and once again staring at his laptop.

This time, though, he’s looking at an informational website about BDSM. It’s not sexy, in fact it reads more like a textbook than anything, but Castiel finds himself sucked into it. There’s a lot of things he didn’t know and some things he did, but all of it fascinates him in a way that makes it seem like it’s all completely normal.

_When Castiel went into Purgatory for the first time, he’d had no idea what kind of club it was. He’d seen several people wearing leather go in, accompanied by a couple people who weren’t wearing much at all, but that hadn’t seemed unusual. People were walking in who were dressed like him, jeans and a shirt, although none of them had been sporting a black eye._

_That night, Castiel had needed Gabriel. Their landlord had come up, ranting about being behind on their rent and kicking them out, and when he’d left, Luke had been furious. Castiel had shoved Anna into her room and taken the beating until Luke had started slurring something about “fucking kill you” and “worthless fag”, and then he ran. Luke had told him, weeks ago, about Purgatory, where Gabriel worked, but he hadn’t mentioned what kind of club it was._

_When he’d gotten in, Cas had been overwhelmed. There were so_ many _people there. So much was happening, and he’d stood for a few minutes just looking and trying not to freak out. The man who’d approached him seemed nice, saying something about how he looked confused, and Cas told him that he was looking for Gabriel._

_“No worries, I’ll take care of you,” the man assured him, wrapping his arm around Cas' waist and guiding him towards a darkened staircase. A quick flash of a card later and he was leading Cas down the stairs and through what he had called “the Pit”, which was filled with things Cas wasn’t sure he wanted to think about._

_“Are you sure he’s down here?” He’d asked, and the man’s smile twisted into a sneer._

_“What, am I not good enough for you?” Castiel protested, trying to tug away, but the man caught his wrist and dragged him into a room that was filled with other men. They’d shoved him around, and by the time Dean came in Cas had been exhausted and humiliated and sore. All he’d wanted was to go home._

Castiel thinks that he could trust Dean like the websites say he should. He think he wants that, wants someone who he can let take care of him.

When he hears the turn of the lock from the hallway, Cas slams his laptop shut, like he’s doing something he should be ashamed of, but when he hears Gabriel sigh and collapse onto the couch, he slowly opens it again. He doesn’t feel the need to greet his brother—Gabe’s probably in a bad mood from the tourists and kids that swarm the shore during the summer. He’s probably already eaten lunch, so Cas doesn’t bother asking his brother if he wants anything when he finally leaves his room to make himself a sandwich a few minutes later.

“Do you ever get tired?” Gabriel asks from his spot on the couch, the TV blaring a shitty sitcom, volume too loud in the small apartment.

“Every day,” Cas answers humorlessly, but Gabriel quirks a small smile at him and raises his beer. Castiel tries to ignore it, but the cigarette burns on the table and the beer stains on the couch are suddenly all too noticeable. Gabriel’s smile falls when Cas ducks his head, walking back to his room as quickly as he can while holding his plate.

He’s settling back onto the bed, textbook open and homework out, when Gabriel appears in the doorway, sans beer.

“I’m not like him, you know,” he says. Cas doesn’t look up. Gabriel stands there for a minute, watching him, but eventually he turns away and walks back to the couch. Cas buries his mind in art history and tries not to think about the bruises blossoming under his ribs.

That night, Dean goes to one of Boulder’s bars and sits at the counter to nurse a glass of whisky. A woman approaches him, tall and lithe and pretty, and he talks for a few minutes with her. When her hand slides up his thigh though, he shakes it off, too tired to do anything but smile apologetically as she huffs.

“Sorry,” he offers. She smiles ruefully at him, shaking her head.

“No need.” She departs quickly after that, however, sliding back into a booth with a few other women.

Dean leaves without finishing his drink. He still feels a little bit sick to his stomach, and when he gets back to his hotel room he sits heavily on the bed, fishing his phone out and pulling up his contacts. Sammy’s face, smiling and happy, glares up at him from the screen, and Dean wants to call him. He wants Sam to be sympathetic and tell him that it’s okay, that everything’s going to be fine.

Dean puts his phone away. It’s not Sam’s job to be sympathetic. It’s more than likely he wouldn’t even answer. So instead, he shrugs out of his overshirt and jeans, planting himself face-down on the hotel bed, after rolling down the duvet. God only knows what was on that thing.

Sleep comes quickly. The drive to Colorado had exhausted him, and the added stress of the visit means that he’s passed out on top of the sheets in about ten minutes. Dean is fast asleep when the phone rings.

“H’llo?” He mumbles, having grabbed his phone from the nightstand without bothering to look at the too-bright screen.

“Mr. Winchester, this is Doctor Morgan.” Oh no. Dean’s stomach sinks and he sits up, rubbing his eyes with one hand and trying his best to pretend that this is a dream. “I’m sorry, but your father has passed away.”

“What—what happened?” Dean sags against the headboard and lets his head thump back against the wall. Doctor Morgan sighs, the prickle of static rough over the line.

“During the surgery, we overlooked a spot of internal bleeding. Suffice to say, it was a mistake on our part. By the time we noticed, there was nothing we could do.”

“Okay,” Dean says hoarsely. He doesn’t want to think about this. He wants to be back home, in his apartment in California. But he isn’t, so he takes a deep breath and steels his resolve. “What now?”

“Well, your father didn’t have a will, so it’s up to you, his next of kin, to decide to whom his belongings will go. You can stop by the morgue in the morning and talk to the mortician.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats. He can practically hear the sympathetic smile Doctor Morgan gives him over the phone.

“I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Winchester.” The line goes dead, and Dean lets himself drop the phone.

_I’m not_ , he very firmly doesn’t think.

Dean doesn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he turns on the television and half-watches a local news station. When the sun peeks over the horizon, he turns it off and shuffles into the shower, scrubbing down and changing as quickly as possible. By eight thirty, he’s checking out of the hotel, his duffel in one hand and his car keys in the other.

The hospital has a surprisingly efficient routine. Dean has to go to the mortuary and identify John first, which makes his stomach turn. Then he picks up his father’s belongings, which consists of one bag half-full of rumpled clothing, next to a collection of empty beer bottles.

“His car should be at the local impound,” the woman at the desk says. “Just give them this receipt and you’ll get his keys.”

“Thanks,” Dean says with a forced smile. He tosses John’s bag into the trunk of his car and slams it shut without a second glance.

The drive to the impound is short. Within minutes Dean is exchanging the receipt and, briefly, his credit card, for the keys to one 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Bracing himself with the knowledge that his baby’s probably totaled, Dean heads into the lot.

_Totaled_ doesn’t even come close to describing the state of the Impala. She’s completely caved in on one side, the roof is smashed in, and one door hangs sadly by a single hinge. Dean honestly has to take a moment to compose himself, to look away. He approaches the car slowly, running a hand over her once-polished exterior, and closes his eyes. This is going to take a hell of a lot of time and money to fix, but Dean promises himself that he’ll do it.

This car was his home for the first fifteen years of his life. He doesn’t remember the time before Mary’s death much, but he remembers that she and John fought a lot. After she died, Dean’s life was an endless routine of seedy motel rooms and concerned teachers and a rumbling stomach because they didn’t have enough money to feed both him and Sam.

And then, when he was sixteen, they stopped in California. Dad left them with thirty bucks and the key to a motel room on the outskirts of Long Beach, and then he drove away in the Impala to wherever it was he disappeared to when he left.

_March, 1999_

_For the first week, they’re fine. Sammy’s long grown used to John’s stretching absences, and he seems resigned to the fact that he is, once again, starting at a new school._

_Dean doesn’t bother to even register himself. He turns in the papers at Sam’s middle school, and then goes in search of a job, any job. He tries the fast food places first, then a mechanic near the motel, with no luck. He’s used to this by now, has settled into a routine. So he makes a trip to the gas station and tries to buy something relatively healthy for Sam—a cheap ham and cheese deli sandwich with questionable lettuce on it—and takes a candy bar for himself by the way of a five-finger discount._

_Sam gets home from school, flinging his backpack down on the scuffed carpet, and immediately launches into a tale about some guy who made fun of him about something or other. Dean ruffles his hair and teases him lightly, makes Sam do his homework on autopilot, and when it finally starts to get dark outside, he grabs his wallet and makes to head out the door._

_“Where are you going?” Sam asks. He’s munching on the sandwich Dean had gotten him, face screwed up like he was being forced to._

_“Work,” Dean says. “A McDonald’s downtown offered me a night shift.”_

_Sam accepts the lie and goes back to his dinner. Dean’s stomach rumbles in jealousy._

_When he makes it to an alley a few blocks away from the hotel, Dean swipes a bit of chapstick across his lips and runs a hand through his hair, his sights set on the truck stop he’d seen on the way into the city. It’s only a few blocks away, and he gets there relatively quickly on foot. He’s not the only person out there; there’s a woman who could either be twenty or forty-five waiting around the entrance of the station. Dean steers clear of her and waits by the drive-in._

_Soon enough, someone rolling by him slows, then stops. It’s not a trucker, though, not even close. The car’s something fancy and modern, and Dean has to appreciate it for a moment before he remembers what he’s here for. So he sidles up to the car, waiting until the window’s rolled down and asks: “Somethin’ I can do for you?”_

_The man in the car is nothing like what Dean had expected. He has a wild mane of dark hair that’s rapidly turning silver, with a beard to match, and piercing eyes that make Dean want to look away. Instead he puts on his cockiest smirk and leans into the car a little further, towards the man._

_“How much for the night?” The man asks, his voice a low rumble. Dean wants to frown and decline—he was hoping to make a little more than what a night would get him—but then he looks at the suit the man’s wearing and his obviously new car, and decides to push it a little._

_“One-fifty,” he offers, and beneath the beard the man’s lip twitches._

_“All right.” He grabs his wallet from the passenger seat, sliding out three bills and holding them out. Dean takes them and folds them after checking, sliding them into this wallet without taking his eyes from the other man._

_“Get in,” he says. Dean complies without a word. “What’s your name?”_

_“Alec,” Dean replies, reclining back in the seat that still smells like new leather and resisting the urge to put his feet on the dash, just to mess with the guy._

_“If you say so,” the man says. “I’m Cain.”_

_Dean leans his head back against the seat and looks out the window, reigned to what he knows is coming, smoothing his thumb over the bills in his pocket to try and convince himself it’s worth it._

_When Dean starts gathering his clothes from the apartment floor that night, the bed is empty. Cain had left him in the bedroom, claiming that he needed to get some work done, and disappeared down the hallway. It’s almost two in the morning, and Dean attempts to sneak out as quietly as possible, hoping that the man had fallen asleep at his desk._

_“Alec,” Cain calls from the other room. “I’ll pay you double if you come back tonight.”_

_Dean doesn’t say anything. This isn’t fucking_ Pretty Woman _, but 300 bucks is a lot of money. He wouldn’t have to go back to the truck stop for days, plus he’d have what he earned tonight. He unlatches the front door and slips out._

_“See you at ten,” Cain calls, before the door shuts with a soft click._

 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been two weeks since Dean got home. Two weeks, and he still hasn’t found the courage to call Sam and tell him that their father is dead. Benny keeps looking at him with pity when he thinks he can’t see, and tonight, in the office above Purgatory, he just can’t take it anymore.

“What should I do?” He asks. Benny looks up from where he’s been running numbers and raises one bushy eyebrow.

“Sorry?” Dean drops his pen and glares at nothing in particular, crossing his arms over his chest and reclining in his chair. He feels like a petulant child.

“You keep looking at me like I should be doing something. So what is it? What should I do?” He sounds bitter, he knows, but he’s known Benny a long time. They’d met when Dean was twelve, passing through Louisiana, and they’d managed to keep in touch with a few hurried phone calls a month and visits whenever Dean passed through again.

“You should talk to Sam,” Benny says. “I know you two aren’t exactly on the best of terms, but he deserves to know.”

_Aren’t on the best of terms_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. They hadn’t spoken for years after Sam left for college, and even now their conversations are rushed and strained, when they’re not fighting. Dean’s only met Sam’s girlfriend Jessica twice in the six years she and Sam have been dating, and he lives less than five hours away from them.

“How do you want me to do that?” Dean asks. “Just call him up and say ‘Oh hey, Sam, the man you hate so much? Yeah, he’s finally dead. Congratulations!’?”

Benny snorts, but levels Dean with a Look that says that he means business. “With a little more tact, maybe. You should do it now.”

“Like hell,” Dean scoffs. Benny’s gaze doesn’t waver. “No. No way.”

“I’ll be right here,” Benny assures him. Dean glares more. “Come on. Two minutes, then you can hang up.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, each of them equally stubborn and neither of them willing to back down, until finally Dean looks down.

“I can’t do this, brother,” he admits quietly. “He pretty much hates me already.”

“Then there’s not much you can do to make it worse.” Benny’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s Dean’s best friend. He’s never liked Sam much, or vice versa, but Dean trusts him. Trusts his judgement. So Dean sighs and picks up his phone, pulling up Sam’s contact and pressing ‘Call’.

“What?” Sam picks up on the third ring, sounding irritated. Dean’s speechless for a moment— _not even a hello?_ —but he composes himself quickly.

“Hey, Sam. Um—”

“What is it, Dean? I have an exam in two hours and I’m stuck in traffic, so make it fast.” Dean wants to ask why he would make it fast if Sam was stuck, but refrains.

“Dad’s dead,” he says bluntly. The words catch slightly in his throat but he forces them out, waiting in silence after he speaks.

“That must have been a real blow for you,” Sam says, scorn in his voice. Dean leans forward and drops his head into his hand. “Hope he had a nice funeral.”

“Can you stop being such a fucking bitch for ten seconds and act like a decent human being for once?” Dean spits, letting his anger overwhelm him for a brief moment. Sam scoffs over the phone, the blaring of horns almost drowning him out.

“Why should I? He never cared about me, or you, so why should I care about him?” Dean’s so tired of having this argument every time he and Sam speak. He’s so tired of fighting all the time.

“You know what?” He laughs a little bit, humorlessly. “Never mind. Good luck on your test, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Dean hangs up and drops his phone on his desk with a clatter. Benny’s looking at him from across the room, sympathy spelled out across his face.

“I’m sorry,” Benny says. He’s not sorry for making Dean call, of course not, but he is sorry for what Sam said, and he doesn’t even know what it was.

“Not your fault.” Dean shakes him off and stands, shrugging on his coat. “I’m gonna go downstairs for a while.”

“You sure that’s the best idea right now?” Benny asks, one eyebrow raised. Dean smiles wryly.

“I’ll put Pam on watch for me. If she sees me doing something I shouldn’t be, she’ll drag me back up here.” Benny nods, satisfied, then turns back to his computer with a small smirk.

“Have fun.” Dean smirks back and gives a two-fingered salute from his forehead.

“Yes sir.”

The club is busy—no wonder, on a Saturday night. Dean stops at the bar and flags down Pamela. A few whispered requests later and she promises to keep an eye on him, with a saucy wink and a lecherous grin. Pam’s exactly Dean’s type, but they’ve kept a strict business relationship in all the years she’s been working at Purgatory.

In the dimly lit lounge, Dean can see groups of people milling about, many scantily clad and holding leashes, partners kneeling at their feet. Several people Dean recognizes as regulars, people from the area who frequent Purgatory in groups or with their partners. 

There’s several small stages around the room, with small alcoves covered by curtains dispersed between them for privacy. The private rooms are down in the Pit, and unless someone has a membership, they have to be escorted down by a staff member. The main stage is more brightly lit than the rest of the room, and onstage Dean recognizes Hannah, one of Charlie’s friends, punishing a young man wearing nothing but a jockstrap.

Sometimes, Dean wonders how this even became his life. But then he thinks back to those months with Cain, and figures that this is probably the best thing that could have happened to him. When he inherited Purgatory, he’d been a twenty-four year old with no college degree and no future—he’d had nothing but a deadbeat dad and a brother who wouldn’t talk to him.

Dean’s leaning against the wall, surveying the crowd, when he sees someone come in from the front entrance. He’s wiry and tall, though still shorter than Dean, and he looks around like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to be here. Something about him seems familiar—the duck of his head, maybe, or his stride. When he gets close enough for Dean to see his face, his breath catches in his throat.

Oh, yes. Dean remembers him. That’s Cas, the kid who’d wandered in once looking for Gabriel, and then again looking for Dean. He’s looking uncertainly around the room, as if he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing now that he’s in here. Dean thinks about going to him, introducing himself properly, and then dragging him down into the Pit to have some fun. Instead, though, he waits where he is, wanting to see for himself what Cas will do next.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, a woman approaches Cas, her long dark hair cascading down her back, in nothing but a corset, a tiny black skirt, and some heels. From what Dean knows of her, her name is Meg, and had scene with Alastair for a time until, predictably, he had ignored one of her hard limits. She talks to Cas for a while, and after a few minutes he starts leaning in closer to her, his eyes wide. Meg smirks and gestures towards the entrance to the Pit, flashing her badge, and Dean watches as hesitation crosses Castiel’s face. He pushes himself up off the wall, making his way past a few groups of people to tap Meg’s shoulder.

“Dean!” She grins wide and false when she sees, him, bright red lipstick staining her lips. “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”

“I’m here every night, Meg,” he replies drily. She winks, and out of the corner of his eye Dean can see Cas flush down his neck.

“Well, Clarence and I were just about to have a little fun downstairs, so if you don’t mind...” She trails off meaningfully, one eyebrow raised high, and Dean arches a brow of his ow.

“Yeah, Cas?” He directs the question at Castiel without looking at him, keeping his eyes on Meg. She knows that if it comes down to a real battle for Cas' attention, Dean is going to win, but Meg has never been one to back down from a challenge. Cas stammers for a moment, glancing between the two of them.

“It’s just a question, Clarence,” Meg murmurs, looking away from Dean to run a hand down Cas' arm, batting her eyelashes. “Who would you rather go with? I’m sure Dean-o here won’t be offended if you said me.”

“I—,” Cas begins. He looks a little nervous, and Dean almost feels bad for the kid. “I’ll, um, stay up here.”

Meg’s face falls ever so slightly and she scowls at Dean, but backs away from Cas, dropping her arm. Dean lets himself smile a little bit, looking Cas in the eye for the first time.

“I think I saw Ruby come in a few minutes ago,” he offers, knowing that the two women often enjoy their time together. It doesn’t surprise him, honestly. “Why don’t you go find her?”

Meg knows that he’s subtly marking his territory, and inclines her head slightly before making her exit. In the wake of the conversation, Cas stands gripping one elbow, arm crossing his chest. Knowing that he probably feels a little uncomfortable, Dean offers his hand with a cheerful smile. It’s not the norm in Purgatory, but the kid’s new, so Dean cuts him some slack.

“Funny seeing you here,” Dean says. Cas glances away, still slightly embarrassed, if the pink tinge to his skin in the low light is anything to go by.

“I was looking for you, actually.” He seems hesitant to admit it, faltering slightly between words. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to be here.”

“I’m here every night, like I said. I own the place, it’s sort of my job.” Cas nods in understanding and tugs the yellow band around his wrist—the one that signifies that he’s allowed to drink.

“Happy birthday,” Dean remarks, and Cas looks him solidly in the eye for the first time that night.

“How did you know?” He nods to the wristband.

“I said come back when you turned twenty-one, and I took your fake. Not a hard conclusion, even if I was a few days off.” Cas rubs the back of his neck and shifts slightly. His eyes keep darting to the stages around the room, most of which are in use. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Please,” Castiel replies, relief evident in his voice as his hand drops in relief. “I mean—it’s a nice place. Great. Except I’ve—”

“Never done this before,” Dean cuts in cleanly. “I figured. Come on, I’ll take you out back.”

They weave through the groups of people, much like the first time they met, and soon Dean’s nodding at the bouncer by the back door and leading Cas into the crisp air of the back parking lot. Castiel relaxes almost as soon as they’re out of the building. His spine straightens, his eyes stop flickering around like he thinks he’s going to be attacked.

“It’s a little overwhelming, I get it,” Dean offers with a smile, leaning against the hood of his car. The Impala’s still waiting in the shop for him to come by and fix her up; he’s got a good relationship with the local mechanic and had asked to use his space to work on her. Cas smiles back, more genuinely than he had before.

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you or anything, it's just that you said to come back, and I thought that maybe...” Cas trails off, looking up at Dean hopefully through his eyelashes and biting down on his lower lip. Dean wants to make this hard for him, wants to tease a little bit more, but if he’s honest he’s thought about Cas a few times since they’d met and Dean doesn’t feel like denying himself tonight.

“Maybe we could go back to my place.” Cas blushes a little bit in the lamplight, but nods.

“I’d like that,” he says. Dean fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car, motioning at Cas to get in. He complies quickly, ducking into the passenger seat with grace. Even though his hands are fidgeting in his lap, he doesn’t look nervous, just excited and maybe a little worked up. Dean can’t wait to run his hands through that soft hair again, can’t wait to make Castiel look absolutely _wrecked_. Instead of dragging the man into the backseat and rutting against him like he so desperately wants to, he grips the steering wheel in one hand and turns the key in the ignition with the other. Tonight, he thinks, is shaping up better than he’d originally predicted.

Dean’s car is nice. Castiel doesn’t know a lot about cars, but he knows that ones like this don’t come cheap, and he wonders what exactly it is that he’s gotten himself into. He doesn’t say anything though, as he gets into this man’s—this stranger’s—car, merely shooting off a text to Gabriel that says if he doesn’t hear from him by tomorrow, call the cops. He gets a winking emoji as a response, seconds later.

“You know what you want,” Dean says suddenly from the driver’s seat as they ease out of the parking lot. Castiel shrugs, leaning his head against the glass of the window and regretting it immediately as they roll over a speed bump. He hears Dean chuckle slightly as he rubs at his forehead.

“I’ve had a while to think about it,” he replies. Dean gives him an appraising look before turning back to the road, something like satisfaction in the curve of his lips.

“And what is it? That you want.” Dean sounds a little smug, so Castiel carefully lets his head tilt back, exposing his neck. Dean’s eyes flick away from the road and pause when he sees, and Cas smiles. He knows this game. Dean looks back to the road.

“You.”

The rest of the ride goes surprisingly quickly. Dean doesn’t live far away, and he leads Castiel into his apartment building, minutes away from the ocean, with a brisk pace. They take the stairs up, three stories, and the minute they’re in Dean’s apartment, Castiel is pressed up against the door.

Dean kisses him, a firm press of lips that has Castiel pushing himself up on his toes to reach and leaning in for more, Dean’s hands gripping his waist tightly. Dean grins against his lips when Cas pushes his hips up, then reaches down to palm at his ass. Castiel lets his head fall back against the door, breaking the kiss, and then Dean crouches down slightly, his hands trailing lower until they’re pressing behind Cas' knees. He’s confused until Dean looks up at him, eyes dark in the shadows of the unlit apartment, and says “Jump.”

Obeying without thinking, Castiel finds himself hitched higher up on the door, his hips aligned with Dean’s and his legs wrapped solidly around the other man. Dean pins him against the wall and kisses him again, and Castiel lets himself forget about all of his hesitations for tonight. Just for tonight.

After a long time spent making out against the door, their lips growing slick and puffy and sore, Dean finally pulls away and takes Cas with him, making him yelp and scramble for a hold around Dean’s neck. Cas clings on desperately to him as Dean takes him into what must be his bedroom, dropping Castiel on the bed with a groan.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he says teasingly, crouching down to push Cas' shirt up and off.

“Thanks.” Cas tosses it across the room after removing it, and watches as Dean strips off his own shirt, discarding it on the floor before crawling up the bed to kiss him again. He arches up against Dean, half-hard and wanting, and Dean obliges him by trailing one hand down to press at his crotch, palming Castiel through his jeans.

“Can I fuck you?” Dean asks breathily, his fingers dexterously unbuttoning Cas' pants and slipping inside.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasps as Dean wraps a hand around his cock, stroking once, lightly. Dean makes a deep noise in his throat and bites down on Castiel’s bottom lip. It’s hot in a way nothing should be. When Dean releases him, Cas keens, lifting up his legs to let Dean pull his jeans the rest of the way off.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, undoing his belt and shoving off his own pants, rolling away momentarily to grab a bottle of lube from the dresser. By the time he returns, Castiel has a hand between his own spread legs, fucking up into it lazily as he watches Dean with hooded eyes.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” He asks, voice deep with arousal. Dean swats at his thigh unthinkingly, and is ready to apologize when Cas moans at the slap. He decides not to push further tonight, but files _that_ information away for later.

He slicks up two fingers, slipping them down past Cas' balls to circle at his hole, while Dean crawls on top of him to bite at his swollen lips again. When he finally lets his first finger slip in, Castiel moans against Dean’s lips and arches his back, pushing down as if he can’t wait for more.

“Greedy,” Dean murmurs into Cas' mouth, and adds another finger.

Cas whines and clenches, bearing down on the two fingers inside him, because he hasn’t been able to do this to himself in months and no one has ever done it for him before.

“More,” he pleads, fisting his hands in the sheets as Dean complies, slicking up a third finger and easing it in. Cas relishes the burn, the stretch as Dean carefully scissors his fingers, and when they brush his prostate he bucks up and into the intrusion. “Please.”

Dean doesn’t offer anything more, fucking his fingers into Castiel hard and fast until Cas is clinging to his neck and begging, his shame completely swept away by the onslaught of pleasure. Finally, when Dean deems him open and ready enough, he rolls on a condom and positions himself at Castiel’s entrance.

The push in is slow and torturous. Castiel rakes lines down the skin of Dean’s back, urging him to go faster with heels pressed to the small of his back. Dean, however, takes his own sweet time, though, pressing Cas into the bed with the weight of his body.

“Fuck,” Castiel gasps, as Dean finally bottoms out. Dean groans through clenched teeth in agreement, pressing their foreheads together as they each try to catch their breath. After a long moment of Dean buried inside Cas, _filling_ him, finally Dean starts to move.

“Faster,” Cas urges, silenced by the clash of Dean’s lips on his and trying to moan into the negative space between their mouths. He shakes when Dean shifts the angle of his hips slightly, his cock brushing past Cas’s prostate. Cas makes a choked off noise in the back of his throat and clenches down around him, and Dean grins savagely against his mouth.

They move together, quick and rough and desperate, their bodies winding around each other until Castiel isn’t sure which way is up anymore—he’s so blindsided by pleasure, and high on the taste of Dean’s breath in his mouth.

“Please,” he  begs—for what, he’s not entirely sure. Dean seems to understand though, and snakes a hand between their hips to wrap his fist around Castiel’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts until Cas can’t take it anymore, his back arching and his head falling back into the pillows as he comes hard all over himself and Dean’s hand.

Dean doesn’t stop fucking him; in fact, he increases the pace. He pounds hard and rough into Castiel, his rhythm going erratic and faltering before he stills suddenly, buried deep inside Castiel’s body as he spills into the condom. Cas is loose and boneless on the bed as Dean regains himself, sweaty forehead pressed to Castiel’s chest.

When he pulls out, Dean swears softly, trying to make it gentle on Cas as his hole flutters around open air. Cas turns over onto his stomach and buries his head in the pillow, feeling the shifts in the mattress as Dean disposes of the condom and then collapses next to him. They don’t speak, and Castiel has every intention of getting up and leaving immediately.

Except, this bed is so _soft_. Memory foam, he thinks, remembering his parent’s bed from years ago. And Dean is so _warm_ next to him, an arm flung out and draped across Castiel’s hips. And without his consent, Castiel finds himself drifting off, his body loose and sated, if somewhat dirty. His last thought before he succumbs to slumber is that this is probably going to turn out to be a bad idea.

When Dean wakes up, there’s a warm body draped across his torso and a shock of messy brown hair sticking into his face. Cas is soundly asleep, the sheets half covering his nakedness, and Dean takes a moment to admire the arch of his back beneath it.

Cas makes a soft noise and rolls over onto his back, leaving Dean behind and taking the sheets with him. In the early morning light his face has a softer quality to it, stubble rounding out his sharp jawbone and his dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks.

Dean gets up, careful not to disturb him, and throws on a pair of pants to head into the kitchen, trying to quietly pull out a few pans. He grabs ingredients from the pantry and sets them on the counter, turning on the stove and cracking an egg into a bowl. In a separate bowl, he mixes flour and the rest of the ingredients. He’s just mixing the two together when he hears the floorboards creak.

Castiel is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes blearily. He’s pulled on his boxers, but other than that he’s still completely naked.

“What are you doing?” He asks, voice roughened by sleep.

“I’m making pancakes,” Dean replies easily. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Oh.” Cas' brow furrows and he makes an abortive move with his hands, like he was going to shove them into nonexistent pockets. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Only if you want to,” Dean replies, grabbing a whisk from the drawer and near-violently beating the batter. Cas eyes him warily for a few moments before shrugging and heading towards the kitchen, taking a seat at the counter and resting his chin on his hand.

“So why are you making pancakes? Other than breakfast being important.” Dean looks up at him, then back down at his mixing bowl, and shrugs.

“I like pancakes. And I don’t want you to leave.” Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he sits there in silence as Dean pours the batter into the pan a little bit at a time, slowly building his stack of pancakes until it looks like it would feed the two of them twice over.

Once they’re done, Dean divides the pancakes into two stacks, then pours two glasses of orange juice without even bothering to check if Castiel likes it (he does). With everything finally in place, he joins Cas at the counter, reaching for the syrup and practically drowning his stack as Castiel looks on in horror.

“What are you _doing_?” He asks in incredulity. “Those poor pancakes didn’t do anything to you.”

“Dude, this is delicious,” Dean insists as he takes a bite that could probably singularly give him diabetes. Castiel wrinkles his nose and tries not to look at the mountain of syrup, choosing instead to reach for the butter and smear it on his stack, cutting them into neat pieces while Dean simply tears into his own.

They eat quietly, like neither of them know what to say. It’s not uncomfortable, but they’re both aware that Castiel will be leaving soon, and it’s not like he expects Dean to ask for his number. Except that he kind of does.

When Castiel happens to glance at the clock he nearly jumps out of his skin, jolting in his chair.

“What?” Dean asks. “What is it?”

“I have class in twenty minutes!” Castiel exclaims, scrambling off the stool and back into the bedroom. Dean follows him lazily, watching as he hurriedly dresses, darting around the room to find his various articles of clothing.

“Do you need a ride?” Dean asks, and Cas freezes with one shoe half-on. His car… is still where he parked it at Purgatory. Last night. When he went home with Dean.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says violently. 

Dean chuckles a little bit and heads into the fucking walk-in closet, because of course this fancy apartment has a walk-in closet, and reemerges with a pair of sandals on his feet and a hoodie half-zipped over his bare chest. “I’ll drive you.”

Castiel wants to decline, but at this point the bus would be too slow and calling a taxi wouldn’t be worth the wait. So he slips into his other shoe and follows Dean out the door, desperately hoping that Samandriel will be there today to let him borrow some paper to take notes on. He’s fucked. This whole day is going to be _fucked_.

Castiel gets to work late the next day, rushing in the back door and tying on his apron quickly. Hannah gives him a sharp look, but doesn’t say anything, which he’s grateful for. Traffic had been hell on the way to take Anna to school, and they’d already been running late.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless, as he passes Hannah on the way out of the kitchen. She gives him a wry smile and shakes her head.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she warns, but there’s no real heat in her voice. He grins back at her and checks his pockets, making sure his notepad and pen are in there, along with a few straws, before heading out of the kitchen and clocking in for his shift. It’s going to be a long day.

_Long day_ is an understatement. When he gets out Hael immediately shoves him towards the tables in his section, most of which are currently occupied. The morning passes in a blur of taking orders and refilling drinks, until the lunch rush is finally over and he can take his break.

“Do you have a lunch?” Hannah asks him as he unties his apron and collapses into a chair in the corner of the kitchen. She turns off her stove and heads over to him, placing a motherly hand on his shoulder. He shakes his head and she frowns. “Again? Castiel, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Hannah,” he assures her with a weary smile. “We’re in a rough patch, but we’ll be fine.”

“Do you _want_ some lunch? On the house, I promise.” Truth be told, the last time Castiel ate a real meal and not just scraps from the fridge they can barely afford to keep running, was yesterday morning when Dean had made him pancakes.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” he says, steeling his resolve. Castiel doesn’t take charity, he’s made this known several times before. Hannah sighs and rolls her eyes affectionately.

“And if I told you we messed up an order earlier and have an untouched burger just waiting to be thrown away?” She says, and Castiel knows she’s won when his stomach growls audibly. “I’ll go get it for you.”

The burger is delicious, if cold, and Castiel devours it in minutes. Hannah eats next to him, exchanging pleasant conversation until they both have to clock in again. She’s been good to him, keeping him employed since he was eighteen and desperate to do anything to help his family stay afloat, and she’s heard all of Castiel’s stories. They part with a grin, Hannah heading back into her section of the kitchen and firing up again while he ties his apron back on.

When Cas emerges from the kitchen, only two tables in his section are occupied. He takes the first with a grin, taking the couple’s order quickly, then rounds the corner to check the other table and stops in his tracks.

Dean is sitting in a small booth, newspaper open in his hands and a glass of water collecting condensation in front of him on the table. Cas hesitates, watching as Dean turns the page, his menu discarded next to his drink. Steeling his nerves, Castiel heads over to the table, determined to stay professional.

“Can I take your order?” He asks, coming to a stop in front of the booth. Dean looks up sharply, and Castiel deftly avoids his gaze by looking down at his notepad. Dean pauses for a moment, dropping his newspaper. Finally, he clears his throat and looks down at the closed menu a few inches away.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll have a western burger, please?” Castiel finally looks up, flashing a fake smile and trying to force down a blush. Dean smiles back, more genuinely, and he decides it’s time to take his exit.

“That’ll be right out. Thank you,” he says, taking the menu from Dean’s table and retreating quickly, groaning once he makes it back into the kitchen to deliver the orders.

“Something wrong?” Hannah calls.

“Not really,” he answers, tagging the orders and trying to collect himself. “It’s just—a customer.”

“What happened this time?” Her tone holds more amusement now than concern; it’s become a bit of a sport for the waiters and waitresses to talk about their most frustrating customers. He can feel the blush finally rising to his cheeks, and he covers his face with his hands.

“I may or may not have slept with him on Sunday night?” He says, like it’s a question. Hannah takes a moment to absorb the words, and then she tilts her head back and laughs.

“And you’re pouting because he didn’t ask for your number?” It’s embarrassing, sometimes, how well she can read him.

“I’m not pouting,” Castiel maintains, trying to push back out of the kitchen only to be caught by the wrist.

“Hey, if it’s really that much of an issue ask Hael to take the table. I don’t want you getting hurt,” Hannah says seriously. Cas shrugs her off with a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be fine.” She studies his face for a moment, then gestures for him to carry on.

“If you say so.”

Castiel wastes the next two minutes refilling drinks before he’s once again forced to pass by Dean’s booth. His water glass is drained, and as Cas walks by, he tries to grab it as stealthily as possible. Dean still notices him, of course, but he simply makes eye contact and then looks back down at his paper with a small “Thanks”.

He serves Dean’s meal and the same thing happens, and it’s only when Castiel returns for the final time to drop off his cheque that Dean does more than look at him.

“I forgot to get your number the other day,” he admits quietly, and beneath his freckles Castiel can see a slight blush. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold in a smile and folds his arms across his chest.

“Are you asking for it now?” He asks, feeling bolder than usual. Dean grins up at him.

“If you’re willing to give it.” Castiel waits a moment, trying his best not to look excited, before bending over and scribbling his cell number on Dean’s copy of the receipt.

“Are you planning on asking me on a date?” He asks, half teasing, half serious. Dean just winks, and Castiel takes it as his cue to leave, bumping into Hannah on the way back into the kitchen.

“Did you just give Dean Winchester your phone number?” She asks, incredulous. Castiel frowns.

“Were you… _spying_ on me?” She shrugs him off, gesturing to the closed door.

“You just gave _Dean Winchester_ your phone number!”

“I didn’t realize you knew him,” Cas replies cautiously. Hannah hesitates, clearly thinking.

“I’ve been to his business a few times,” she replies casually, too casually, and Castiel feels his face flame. He didn’t exactly need to know that. She blushes too, once she realizes that he knows what she’s talking about. “Anyway, um. I’ve never heard of Dean dating anyone. You must be special.”

“I’m not,” Castiel protests on instinct, before he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Hannah raises an eyebrow pointedly, looking smug. “Shut up.”

He’s willing to bet that Dean hasn’t even left the building yet, but there’s a new message on his screen from an unfamiliar number.

_About that date._.. it reads, and Castiel bites back a small smile. Maybe he _is_ special, at least to Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been nearly a month since they started dating, and Dean is happier than he’s been in a long time. He sees Castiel at least twice a week now, in between the mess of their respective jobs and Cas’s classes and everything else. Dean has been careful not to push Cas for anything he doesn’t want to give, especially in regards to sex. He doesn’t want to scare Cas off, or make him feel obligated to do something he doesn’t want to.

Surprisingly, though, Castiel is the one to bring it up. Dean hadn’t expected him to, honestly, and it comes as a surprise when one night after dinner, Cas asks if Dean wanted Cas to sub for him.

“Um,” he replies eloquently, as Cas blinks at him from across the kitchen table.

“I just thought you would have asked if you did. I mean, you own Purgatory, that’s kind of an indication of what you might expect from me.”

“Cas, I don’t _expect_ anything from you. I want to do what you’re comfortable with, that’s why I didn’t ask.” Castiel cocks his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

“What makes you think I would be uncomfortable?” He asks, looking down at his empty plate. Dean stares at him, still reeling from the unexpected change of topic.

“Well, you’ve clearly never done it before. I wasn’t sure if you were interested,” Dean replies. Cas glances up, then back down again when he sees Dean looking. Dean would call almost it coy, if he didn’t know Castiel and his inability to do anything but speak his mind at all times.

“And what if I were interested?” He asks, and Dean gets the sense that he’s been thinking about this for a long time. “What then?”

Dean pauses. Cas looks sincere, if embarrassed, and Dean decides to go all-out. He’ll let Cas make up his mind on his own, but he should know everything.

“Then we’d fill out a contract,” he starts. “That’s how I start every relationship like this. We’d go over all your limits, all your kinks, and figure out a safeword. Then we might start talking about possible test scenes to see if we work well together.”

Cas looks up at Dean again, eyes wide. He doesn’t looks dissuaded—in fact, he looks intrigued. “When could we do that?”

“Tonight, if you wanted. We don’t have to do everything, but I have a basic template on Purgatory’s website to use, and we could go over some of the items on the contract,” he suggests. Cas nods eagerly, standing up abruptly and taking their plates, placing them into the dishwasher after rinsing them off properly. Dean laughs a little bit when Cas pauses in the entryway of the kitchen, looking at Dean expectantly.

“Now?” He asks, laughing a little. Cas goes a little pink and shrugs.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean promises. Castiel follows him obediently into the office, pulling up an extra chair and sitting next to Dean in front of the computer. Dean navigates through Purgatory’s website, and finds the link to a starter contract in the FAQ. He catches Cas reading some of the questions and lingers a little longer on that page, waiting for him to be done before printing the contract out.

The first page is simple, a written statement of agreement to the relationship, and Castiel reads it quickly, shuffling through the other two papers to check what’s on them. On one is a space for personal rules, on the other is a space for hard and soft limits of both partners.

“We can go through our limits now,” Dean suggests. “Then I’ll tell you my rules, and if you’re comfortable with that we can sign the contract.”

“That sounds good,” Castiel agrees. He’s still looking down at the papers on the desk as Dean reaches to grab a pen.

“Have you thought at all about your limits, or would you like me to start?” Dean asks.

“I’ve done a little research, but maybe you should start.” Cas looks embarrassed at the ‘research’ part, and Dean nudges his shoulder gently.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s good you know what you’re getting into.” Cas doesn’t reply, glancing back down at the papers in front of them. Dean thinks for a moment, then starts to fill out the third page.

“So the things I absolutely refuse to do, hard limits, are rape roleplay, scat, bloodplay, anything to do with prostitution or underage sex, and bestiality. I don’t think any of those will be a problem, but in case they come up, they are a definite no.” Cas nods in understanding, watching as Dean writes it all down.

“My soft limits are medical play, intense sadism and masochism, and breathplay. I’ll try them if you want to, but we would have to do a lot of preparation and research first.”

“So even if I wanted to try any of your hard limits, you’d say no?” Cas confirms, pulling over the paper and inspecting the items when Dean is done writing.

“Right. And even if I were interested in one of your hard limits, I wouldn’t do anything with it unless you decided you wanted to try it. What are your limits?”

“Everything you have, I think,” Castiel agrees, taking the pen from Dean’s hand and starting to write.

“Is that it? You can tell me words you don’t want me to say, positions you don’t want to try, anything at all,” Dean urges. Cas pauses, thinking.

“I don’t—don’t call me a girl,” he says slowly. “Or a bitch. Or a faggot.”

“Never,” Dean promises, wincing at the last word. He doesn’t want to ask why Castiel has such an aversion to the first two, but if he had to guess he’d say it had something to do with his older brother. “What about other names? Are those the only ones you’re uncomfortable with?”

“I…” Cas trails off, his face flushing for the first time during the conversation. “I think that others would be fine. I think I’d like to be called a slut, or something. If you want.”

“Is the humiliation something you like?” Dean asks, trying very carefully not to show Cas exactly how excited he is by the possibility. Cas nods quietly, his hands fighting in his lap.

“Hey,” Dean soothes. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I know. It just feels…weird to be talking about it like this.”

“We can try again later, if you want.” Cas shakes his head, directing his gaze back down to the papers in front of them. “Okay. Is that it for your limits?”

“Almost. I’m not interested in whipping, but I would try paddles or canes if you wanted me to,” Cas says quietly. “I don’t think I’m much of a masochist, but I’d be willing to try.”

“We can put that down as a soft limit, then,” Dean says, waiting for Cas to finish writing before placing that page to the side.

“Onto the rules. I only have four, unless we’re doing a specific scene that requires more than that.” Dean waits until he’s absolutely sure Cas is paying attention, then continues. “First: You call me ‘Sir’ at all times during a scene. You don’t have to when we’re not in a scene, but it is a rule every time we play. The next is that you don’t speak in a scene without permission, or unless you’re being spoken to. If you have any questions or need to safeword, do so at any time, but other than that this is a blanket rule for each scene unless specified otherwise. If I gag you, though, feel free to make all the noise you want. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel says, trying the flavor of the word on his tongue. Dean has to stifle a groan, and Cas grins at him like he knows.

“Third is that you don’t come without permission. Unless I’ve explicitly told you that you can come whenever you want, always wait until I give permission. Sometimes I’ll put you in a cock ring to help, other times I won’t. There will be scenes where you don’t get to come at all.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks, then claps a hand over his mouth like he hadn’t meant to ask the question. Dean’s voice softens and he nudges Cas in the arm reassuringly.

“Most of those will be punishments, if you’ve broken a rule or if we decide together beforehand that you _will_ break a rule. If you’re good,” he promises, “it won’t happen often.”

“What’s the last rule?” Cas accepts it without further question, his eyes trained on Dean.

“If you ever need to safeword, I don’t care what we’re doing, you say it. If you’re overwhelmed or aren’t comfortable, stop the scene. The most important thing here is communication, and I’m trusting you to know your limits and not let me push past them. Got it?”

“Got it,” Castiel answers solemnly. “What’s the safeword?”

“Since neither of us are comfortable with rape scenes, I’m going to go on the assumption that ‘no’ means no when we’re scening. If you _ever_ say no, I’ll stop and check in with you. Other than that, we can use the traffic light system to check in during scenes. You know what that is, right?”

“Green means that I’m good, yellow means slow down or give me a break, red means stop immediately,” Castiel recites.

“Good,” Dean praises, making Castiel smile in pride. “For more intense scenes, I want you to have another word, something you can call out if you need to stop. Is there one you could remember easily, during a scene?”

“Kashmir,” Castiel replies instantly. Dean looks up at him, surprised, and beams.

“I love that song.”

“Me too—it’ll be easy to remember, at least,” Castiel replies, leaning into Dean’s side.

“That’s pretty much it, for a beginner’s contract. Anytime you want, we can come back and change things, like if you find something you really don’t want to do, or if you change your mind about a soft limit. All you have to do now is sign.” To prove his point, Dean takes the first sheet and signs his name at the bottom, pushing over to Cas and laying down the pen.

Cas picks up the pen, shifting in in his fingers, and looks down at the contract.

“Cas, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It’s all up to you,” Dean says softly, reaching across to take Castiel’s free hand.

“I know,” Cas assures him. “It’s just, this is so new for me.”

“I’ve got you,” Dean promises. Castiel smiles over at him, adjusts his grip on the pen, and signs his name.

They’re eating dinner the next week when Dean notices the bruises on Castiel’s wrist. The sleeve of his ever-present trench coat has fallen down a few inches, and it reveals a purpling ring that’s not more than a day old. Cas sees Dean look, and immediately shakes his sleeve back down, but he knows Dean saw.

“Cas,” he starts. Castiel closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Don’t.” He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, and they sit in silence, the sounds of the restaurant muted around them. “Not here.”

When Cas opens his eyes, Dean is looking at him, not with pity, but in understanding. He nods, and they go back to their food in silent agreement.

Dean reluctantly lets Cas pay for half the meal, but insists on covering the tip. It’s not an expensive restaurant, but Castiel hadn’t eaten out in months before Dean and he finds himself mentally checking to make sure he’s put in enough money for this month’s bills. It’s a bad habit, one that Dean seems to have picked up on, since every time they go out he tries to convince Cas to let him pay. It only works sometimes, and tonight Castiel holds his ground.

They make idle conversation all the way back to Dean’s apartment, small talk about nothing in particular, and Castiel keeps his hands folded on his lap, sleeves all the way down. Dean glances down at them sometimes, but he quickly looks away each time.

Finally they’re back in the apartment, and Castiel takes a seat on one of the stools at the counter. Dean sits at the kitchen table and looks at him, his face softening around the eyes. Cas looks away and sheds his coat, draping it across the stool next to him and waiting.

Dean doesn’t say anything, his eyes darting down to see the mottled bruises on Cas' wrist, and the carefully-applied bandage that’s been placed on his inner forearm.

“Who did this?” He finally asks, tearing his gaze away.

“Luke,” Castiel replies quietly. “My brother.”

“What’s the bandage for?” Dean asks, like he’s afraid of the answer. Cas blinks hard, trying to force away the dampness in his eyes, and doesn't meet Dean’s gaze.

“He smokes,” he answers, just loud enough for Dean to hear him, and he knows when Dean realizes what he means because he looks like he’s going to be sick. “It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt anymore—”

“Cas,” Dean breaks in. “Cas, that’s not okay, he’s not allowed to just hurt you whenever he feels like it!”

“He doesn’t!” Castiel protests, and he’s a little bewildered as to why he’s standing up for Luke. “It’s just, it hasn’t exactly been easy for him.”

“What hasn’t been easy?” Dean asks. For a moment, Cas doesn’t answer, wondering if he really wants to tell Dean all this. But he’s going to have to tell him anyway, and it’s easier to tell him now than later.

“Our, um, our parents died when I was eight. Luke was seventeen, Gabriel was thirteen. We got shuffled around between relatives for a few years, and when Luke was twenty, he got sent to prison. Gabriel never told me what he did, but he was in there for four years, and by the time he got out, my sister Anna and I were living with Gabriel. He’d stop in sometimes, for a few days, but he never… he was never like he is now.” Castiel pauses and looks up at Dean. He gets a nod to continue, and a small smile.

“There was a stretch when we didn’t hear from him for about two years, and by then Gabriel and I were working pretty much full-time, and I’d started college on all the scholarships I could get. Luke showed up again out of nowhere a year ago, and he’s been living with us ever since. But he’s—he’s different. He drinks too much, and smokes, and we never have enough money anymore because he takes it and goes places and when he comes back there’s none left.” The last sentence Castiel says in a rush, clenching his hands into fists and blinking to try and clear his vision, Dean’s apartment swimming in front of his eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, unexpectedly close, and then he pulls Castiel into a hug, tugging him off the stool. Dean doesn’t complain when Cas buries his face into his shoulder, breathing in shakily. “You’re okay.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Castiel repeats, his voice muffled. Dean’s playing with the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck, and the movement soothes him enough that he can relax into the embrace before tugging away gently. Dean lets him go, concern etched onto his face.

“Hey, I know we have plans this weekend, but if you’re not feeling up for it, we can postpone,” he offers. Castiel seriously considers it for a long moment, but eventually shakes his head.

“No. I want to.” Dean looks at him dubiously but doesn’t question his decision. “I should head home.”

Cas grabs his coat and turns to leave before Dean catches his shoulder.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, his hand dropping away quickly. Cas smiles and leans up, pressing a kiss to his lips, and nods once he draws away.

“Likewise. I’ll see you on Friday, Dean.”

“See you,” Dean echoes softly, and smiles.

 

“You’re going to tie me up,” Castiel confirms, one last time. “If I want to stop, I say red, if I need you to slow down I say yellow. Got it.”

He’s sitting on the bed of the playroom, cross-legged next to Dean, in nothing but a pair of old sweatpants. Dean can’t keep his eyes off him, off the smooth expanse of tan skin that Castiel has put on display. There’s a coil of silk rope next to them, and Cas is looking at it a bit like it’s going to leap up and bite him any second. Dean reaches over and rubs his thigh reassuringly.

“Anytime you want me to stop, I will.” Cas nods, taking a deep breath before uncrossing his legs and pushing off his sweatpants. He kneels on the bed, like they had discussed, and crosses his wrists behind his back.

“Good,” Dean praises, reaching for the rope. Castiel shuts his eyes, but his body is stiff as a board. Dean gets off the bed and moves behind him, stroking a gentle hand down Cas’ spine. “You can relax. You’re safe here, Cas.”

It’s slight, but the tension in Cas’ body eases. Dean reaches for the rope and runs it between his fingers, before rubbing it against Castiel’s bare skin, waiting for him to get used to the sensation.

“Hold still,” he orders gently, and then starts winding the rope around Cas' elbows. The design he and Cas had discussed is simple but effective—his arms, secured behind his back from his elbows to his wrists, are connected to his ankles by a length of rope. Dean had been surprised when Castiel had settled easily into the position; the kid was more flexible than he’d thought. Now, he winds the rope down Castiel’s forearms, keeping an eye on his body language to make sure he’s comfortable.

When he finishes tying off the knots around Cas’ wrists, Dean stands back and taps his shoulder. Cas’ eyes open slowly and he bows his head once he realizes that Dean’s looking at him.

“What’s your color?” Dean asks, tilting Castiel’s head back up so that their gazes meet.

“Green, sir,” Castiel replies, his voice steady. He shifts slightly, and Dean watches as his shoulders tense minutely, as Cas realizes that there’s no way he’s going to get out of the knots on his own. He doesn’t break their gaze though, and the look on Cas' face is open and trusting. It sends a thrill through Dean’s body, but he pushes it down in favor of turning back to the ropes. This isn’t about him tonight, it’s about Cas.

The rest of the setup is relatively simple. When Dean is done, Cas is perched on his knees, his spine bent back slightly and his chest thrust out. He runs a hand down Cas' abs, relishing his twitch of surprise. Cas' eyes stay open at first, but as he arches further into the touch, they slip shut and he strains against his bonds.

“Good boy,” Dean praises, and Castiel groans. With a grin, Dean lets his hands wander down to where Cas' cock is beginning to thicken against his thigh. He wraps his hand around the hard length and starts jerking Cas off, relishing in the moans Castiel lets slip past his lips.

When Dean starts to slow his tugs, Cas tries to push forward into his hand and is stopped by his bonds, which only seems to make his cock harder. Dean pauses completely for a moment, taking his hand off Cas' dick altogether, and when Castiel only sags back, disappointed, he leans down and braces his elbows against the bed.

Dean licks the head of his cock and Castiel swears. Dean swats him on the thigh, a warning tap, and Cas settles back down into the bed. He tenses when Dean dips his head again, lowering his mouth onto his cock and taking Cas in as far as he will go. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t speak again.

Dean starts bobbing his head, teasing the underside of Cas' cock with his tongue and relishing in the gasps that Cas can’t seem to hold in. He’s trying to reign himself in, Dean can tell, but his arms are still trembling against the bonds, instinctively trying to free himself while he quickly comes apart under Dean’s mouth.

“Please,” Castiel gasps, and when Dean looks up, his head is thrown back, the column of his throat glistening with sweat. “Please, sir, let me come!”

Dean pulls off slowly, wrapping his fingers around the base of Castiel’s cock just in time. He pushes himself up and tugs Cas' head towards him, their lips crashing together in a kiss that Castiel tries his best to reciprocate. Snaking a hand between their bodies, Dean frees his own cock from his pants and grips them both in his fist, fucking his hips up until Castiel starts struggling in earnest—his eyes finally open and huge, looking at Dean like he’s Castiel’s whole world.

“Come,” Dean finally grunts, his hand working furiously between them. Castiel jerks against his bonds and moans long and loud as he spills across Dean’s hand and their chests, his shoulders tense and straining. The look on his face, the way Castiel is looking at _him_ combined with the friction of his hand has Dean groaning and shooting all over Cas' abdomen soon after, slumping momentarily from the release.

When Dean sits back again, tucking himself away into his pants, Castiel looks up at him with huge, exhausted eyes. Dean takes his cheeks gently and presses a kiss to his forehead, and Cas relaxes down into the bed, looking like he’s going to fall asleep at any moment.

“You okay?” Dean asks, his hands traveling down Cas' arms until they reach soft rope, cinched tight beneath Cas' elbows.

“Yeah,” Cas replies hoarsely. “Just a little sore.”

“Let’s get you out of these things, okay?” Dean says, moving behind him and quickly undoing the knots. The rope falls away after a few minutes of careful work, and Dean inspects Cas' raw wrists with a frown. They aren’t bleeding, but they’ll definitely be red for a few days. “Are you good with me going to get a few things? I need to take care of this.”

Cas nods sleepily, spread out on the bed now and tiredly worming back into his sweatpants. Dean’s only gone for a minute, to retrieve lotion and water, but when he come back Castiel is facedown on the mattress, his face buried in a pillow and his hands underneath it.

“Come on,” Dean urges gently, until Cas follows him into the bedroom reluctantly, a scowl fixed on his face as he sits down on the bed. Dean makes him drink some water, watching as Cas empties the glass in ten seconds, then gently taking his wrists.

“This’ll make them less sore in the morning,” he promises, and Cas nods in response, waiting patiently as Dean rubs the lotion into his left wrist, forearm, and ankle, then does the same to his right side.

“Can I go to sleep now?” Cas asks when they’re done, his eyelids drooping. Dean laughs and rubs his clean hand through Cas' hair with a fond smile.

“Yeah. I’ll join you in a bit.” Cas worms under the covers, spreading out until he’s taking up most of the bed, and as Dean turns to leave the room, he takes one last look at Cas' profile, stark against the clean white sheets, and then he turns off the light.

Castiel has to wake up even earlier than usual; it takes about ten minutes to get from Dean’s apartment to his own and he still has to take Anna to practice every morning, and he wakes up with a groan to the sound of his alarm going off at five fifteen in the morning.

“Turn it off,” Dean moans, grabbing Castiel’s vacated pillow and covering his face with it. Cas is quick to comply, slipping quietly out of bed without turning on a light. Once he’s in the bathroom getting ready to shower, he turns on the light, but only after fumbling around in the dark for the clothes he knows are on top of the dresser in the closet. Once he’s clean, clothed and dry, he turns back to the bed where Dean’s quickly fallen asleep again, and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek in farewell. He’s too groggy to think clearly yet, so Cas stumbles down to his car in a sleepy daze, starting the trip back home without bothering to turn on the radio.

Anna, surprisingly, is awake when he pulls up to the building, and already waiting for him. She climbs into the passenger seat as soon as the car starts to slow, dropping her backpack and swim bag in the backseat.

“How’s your boyfriend?” She asks lightly. Castiel blinks hard, trying to get the muck out of his eyes, and shrugs.

“He’s fine.”

“Gabriel doesn’t like him,” Anna remarks flatly. This pulls a small laugh out of Castiel.

“Gabriel doesn’t like anyone.”

When Anna’s about to jump out of the car, she turns to Cas and calmly lets him know that she’s not going to be home tonight—she’s staying at one of her friend’s houses again.

“That’s the third time this week,” Cas points out, and her gaze shutters.

“So?” She asks, grabbing her bags out of the back of the car. “Don’t tell me that you don’t want to get out of there, too.” Anna is gone before he has time to reply, but the words leave Castiel feeling upset for a reason he can’t quite place.

During class that day, he takes his notes absentmindedly, only half-listening as the professor drones on about the civil war. This is the last of his required courses, and one that he couldn’t really care less about, if he’s honest. Today, it’s so boring, in fact, that Castiel doesn’t even realize he’s falling asleep until he’s woken up by Samandriel poking him hard in the back. He sits up sharply, startled, only to find the professor eyeing him disapprovingly. She carries on with her lecture, but Cas can still feel her gaze on him.

His cheeks are bright red, he knows, and for some reason he feels worse than he would have if she’d yelled at him. Samandriel tries to get his attention before class ends, asking him if everything is all right, but Cas ignores him, humiliated at being caught.

At work, everything seems to get worse. Castiel is clumsier than he’s ever been, even when nursing bruises from Luke in the past, and by the time his break rolls around he’s already messed up two orders. Hannah comes over, sitting next to him and placing a hand on his arm.

“Are you okay?” She asks. Cas shakes her off. He doesn’t understand why he feels so _awful_ all of a sudden, why he can’t seem to do anything right today.

“I’m fine,” he replies, forcing a smile. “It’s just been a rough day.”

She frowns at him, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder, but eventually nods. “If you say so.”

Except Castiel isn’t fine. He comes off his break thinking he’s recuperated, but when he loads up his arms to take the order out to one of his tables, he stumbles, his toe catching the corner of the counter. The plates go crashing to the ground, the food scattering across the floor amidst shards of broken glass.

Castiel doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until his back hits the wall, both hands clapped over his mouth and his vision blurring. He’s horrified, ashamed. What if he has to pay for the food, for the plates? They just barely managed to pay the bills last month, there’s no way they have enough money to pay this off. He’s breathing hard, gasping through his fingers, and he doesn’t notice that Hannah is in front of him until she’s pulling him into a hug.

“It’s okay,” she promises. “Cas, it’s okay. What happened?”

“I tripped,” he gasps, his voice shaking. Castiel closes his eyes and feels a tear slip down his cheek, and he buries his face in Hannah’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to pay me back, Castiel,” Hannah says, sounding confused and worried. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admits, pulling away and angrily wiping his face. Hannah tracks his movement, and when he looks back up at her, she’s staring at his wrist. At the rope burn on his wrist. “Oh.”

“I see you went on that date.”

“Dean didn’t—I mean, it was safe. He didn’t do anything,” Cas hastens to say. She smiles softly at him, shaking her head.

“I know, he wouldn’t. It’s just, was this last night?” Castiel nods, tugging his sleeves down to cover his wrists. “Do you know what sub drop is, Castiel?”

“I’ve heard of it. Dean said to call him if it happened, but...” he trails off. It makes sense, why he’s been feeling so awful all day, why he’s been so _off_.

“You should call. Take the rest of the day off, you’re no good here,” Hannah says, albeit kindly. Cas looks down at the remnants of glass and food left on the floor and nods, feeling guilt twist in his gut.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, looking at her earnestly.

“Hey, accidents happen. I’m worried about _you_ , Castiel, not a few plates,” Hannah replies, pulling him in for one last hug before gently shooing him out of the kitchen, with the reassurance that no, she’s not going to fire him.

Castiel sits in his car for a long while, his head pressed to the steering wheel, waiting until his hands stop shaking enough for him to drive. Before he turns the key in the ignition, though, he reaches for his phone, pulling up his contacts and barely hesitating before pressing call.

“Cas?” Dean answers the phone immediately, like he’s been waiting for it to ring.

“Hello, Dean,” he replies, because he doesn’t know what to say. There’s silence over the line while he tries to make his thoughts cooperate, to think of something. What does he tell Dean?

“Are you okay?” Dean asks softly, his voice blurred through the phone lines. Castiel pauses, which must be enough of an answer for Dean. “I’m at home, if you need to come over.”

“Thank you. I just—I’m not having a very good day.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and he does sound genuinely sympathetic. “Do you want to keep talking while you’re on your way?”

“No,” Cas murmurs into his phone. “I’ll be there soon.”

“See you, Cas.” Castiel hangs up first, tossing his phone onto the seat next to him and taking a deep breath. He steadies himself, then reaches for his keys.

When he reaches Dean’s apartment, Cas is let in quickly. Dean’s waiting for him at the door of the apartment, and as soon as it’s shut he envelops Cas in a warm hug. Without his permission, Castiel’s arms wrap themselves around Dean’s body and he clings to the older man, burying his face into Dean’s flannel and letting himself sag into the hold.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asks softly. Cas shrugs as best as he can, but he finds himself tearing up for reasons he can’t quite explain. “Hey, it’s okay. I should have warned you about this, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Cas whispers, blinking back the tears harshly. He wants nothing more than to be in Dean’s arms right now, but something insidious and guilty inside of him is taunting him, telling him that he’d let Dean tie him up last night, that he let Dean leave marks on him and touch him, and Dean could have _hurt_ him.

“Come on, baby, let’s get you something to eat,” Dean soothes, his broad hands running along Cas’s spine. Cas hesitates for a moment, forcing back the last of the tears before leaning back and managing a shaky smile.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking slightly with the effort of keeping in control. Dean smiles back softly, resting their foreheads together and bringing one hand up to wipe away a stray tear.

“Anything, for you,” Dean promises, and Cas lets himself believe it.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been three months, and Gabriel still doesn’t trust Dean. Every time Castiel leaves the apartment with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he can feel the glare Gabriel levels at him from across the tiny apartment. Whenever Luke is there, he makes a snide comment or two, but it’s gotten easier for Castiel to ignore him now that he’s not home as often.

“Why do you hate him so much?” Cas finally bursts one day as they sit in the laundromat, dusk falling outside of the dirty building. Castiel’s clothes are in the washer he’s currently sitting on top of, Gabriel on the dryer opposite, obstinately sucking on a lollipop he’d produced from his pocket earlier. He doesn’t answer until Castiel flings a quarter at him that hits his arm and clatters onto the metal top of the dryer.

“I don’t trust the guy,” Gabriel answers. “Cas, he’s what? Thirty?”

“Thirty two,” Castiel replies. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re _twenty one_ , Castiel. You’re young, impressionable. He probably just wants you because you don’t know any better than to tell him ‘no’.” Castiel restrains the sudden urge to punch his brother in the face.

“Dean might be older than me, but he’s not forcing me into anything, Gabriel. He doesn’t do anything that I haven’t consented to completely. Don’t treat me like a child.”

“You _are_ a child! You don’t know the kind of stuff he’s into, man.”

“And you do?” Gabriel scowls at him and Cas scowls back ferociously. The one common trait that all Novak siblings share is stubbornness, and Castiel can sometimes argue with one of his siblings for weeks at a time before they patch things up. He hopes that Gabriel won’t be too obstinate about this, but when his older brother crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, he knows he’s in for at least a few days of sulking and candy wrappers between his sheets.

“Yeah, actually. Look, I’ve been around Purgatory for a while, and that’s not shit I want you getting mixed up in. There’s some fucked-up people that hang around there and for all I know, Winchester could be one of them. I’m looking out for you, Cas.”

“So it’s okay for you to hang out there because you’re working?” They’re drawing eyes now, but it’s not the first time an argument has broken out in the laundromat and it definitely won’t be the last. People have learned by now to just duck their heads and mind their own business. “I’m not allowed to make my own decisions because I’m a few years younger than you?”

“I work like I do because I have to, Castiel. Because I don’t want the four of us getting kicked out of our apartment.” Gabriel isn’t yelling; his voice has lowered until he’s hissing at Castiel viciously, and that’s how Cas knows he’s really angry. “I don’t want you getting in over your head with Winchester and then getting _our_ family into deep shit just because you couldn’t handle him.”

“I don’t know what you think is going on with me and Dean, but I’m not some sort of—some sort of kept boy, okay? If I wanted to stop, he’d let me.” Gabriel sneers and the woman at the station next to him subtly moves a few feet in the other direction.

“Has he even explained anything to you, Cas? Do you have any say in what you do with him?” Castiel’s face burns and he wishes that they weren’t somewhere so public, because this is definitely not a conversation he wants to be having in the middle of a laundromat, sitting next to a basket of his sister’s underwear.

“Of course I do,” he says indignantly. “We wrote up a fucking contract and everything, Gabe. Dean _owns_ Purgatory, did you think he wasn’t going to explain anything to me? And I did my own research beforehand, so don’t you dare say that I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.”

“I’m just looking out for you!” Gabriel exclaims, his voice rising in volume again. “I want you to be happy.”

“Then why don’t you _let_ me?” Cas springs up, suddenly furious. “I’ve come home almost every day for the last year and gotten the crap beaten out of me by Luke, and now I can’t even go see Dean, who makes me _happy_ , without you staring at me like I’m some sort of whore for wanting to have a relationship.”

Gabriel’s face is softening, but Cas is too mad to care. “You’re not the only one who works for this family, okay? I get to go to class every day and feel guilty about it because I could have paid half the month’s rent with the money I used to buy my textbooks, and I won’t let you make me feel guilty about this too, okay? So stop. Just stop with the guilt tripping and the staring and the snide comments, because I’m fed up with it.”

“Cas, I—” Gabriel begins, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear it. He tosses his bag of quarters next to his brother and starts walking toward the door. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going to go, but he does know that if he spends one more minute in Gabriel’s presence he’s going to say something he sincerely regrets.

Dean has been home for about twenty minutes when his buzzer rings. He walks from his place in the kitchen where he was standing over a pot of half-boiled pasta and presses down the button.

“Hello?” He releases it, fully expecting someone with the wrong apartment number. Cas isn’t supposed to come today, he’d said something about going out with Gabriel, and no one else would come over without calling first.

“It’s—um, its Cas. Can I come up?” Dean blinks in surprise. Cas sounds shaken and uncertain, nothing like Dean’s heard him before. He presses the button down again.

“Of course. Come on in.” He buzzes Castiel in, waiting for a few moments until he hears the hesitant knock on his door. Cas stands on the other side of it, arms wrapped around his torso and looking younger than he ever has.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?” Dean asks as he shuts the door behind them. Cas shrugs, standing awkwardly in the hallway. It’s November, but it never gets particularly cold in their part of California, so Cas is wearing a loosely knitted sweater with more holes in it than Dean can count and a pair of jeans, his usual bag conspicuously absent. Dean takes this to mean that either Cas had forgotten it in his rush to get here, or else he’s not planning on staying the night.

“I just...” Cas begins, glancing down at his feet. He trails off, shifting slightly.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Dean suggests. Cas nods, looking grateful for the suggestion, and Dean follows him to the couch. He keeps half his gaze on the pot of pasta on the stove, watching Castiel as closely as he can from a few feet away. He’s not moving like he’s bruised, but Dean is by no means a medical expert. He just has to wait until Cas decides he’s ready to talk.

“I’m going to finish making dinner, okay? You can put on a movie if you like.” Cas nods and slumps back into the couch, making no move toward the remote. His eyes slip shut and Dean watches him for another moment before turning back towards the kitchen.

The pasta is done, so Dean dumps the pot out into a strainer in the sink and shakes it slightly, getting all the water out before tossing the noodles into a bowl with the reheated pesto sauce he’d made a few night ago. By the time he brings two bowls over to the couch, Cas is still leaning heavily against the back of the couch, the cushions practically swallowing him.

“Here,” Dean says, prompting Castiel to open his eyes slowly and take the bowl from him.

“Thanks,” Cas replies quietly, tucking into the pasta with a fervor that makes Dean wonder if he’s eaten today. They eat in silence, Dean watching Castiel carefully as he finishes one bowl and then another, slowing down in the middle of the second one, self conscious of Dean’s eyes on him.

“Hey, it’s fine. Eat as much as you want,” he reassures, and Cas starts eating again, albeit somewhat slower than before.

“I’m sorry I showed up without warning,” Cas finally says as he sets his empty bowl on the coffee table. “I just… I couldn’t go home, and there’s nowhere else that I really can go.”

“I’m glad you came here,” Dean admits. He knows how dangerous some parts of the city can be after nightfall, and some instinctive part of him warms at the thought of Cas coming here, to him, when he needs somewhere to go. “Stay as long as you need to, okay?”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas offers, his hands fidgeting in his lap. After a moment of tense silence, Dean gently takes Cas' hands in his own and tugs him closer, the gap between them on the couch vanishing until Castiel is pressed tight to his side. They sit like that in silence for a while, Cas' head leaning on Dean’s shoulder and their thighs pressed together in companionable silence, hands still locked together.

“Can we,” Castiel begins some time later. He pauses and Dean squeezes his hand gently. “Can we do something?”

“A scene?” Dean asks. He’s not exactly surprised, but he wants to make sure he knows what Cas is asking of him. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“I don’t want to feel in control,” Cas admits quietly. “I don’t want to have to make any decisions.”

“Anything you don’t want me to do?”

“Don’t gag me, please,” he requests. Dean nods and squeezes his hand again.

“I’m going to go wash our dishes. I want you naked and in my bedroom by the time I’m done,” he commands. Castiel immediately relaxes, his head rolling easily off of Dean’s shoulder as he stands. Dean takes their dishes to the sink and starts to scrub, piling the cutlery he used to prepare the meal in with them. He can feel the desire worming under his skin, and he wants to follow Castiel into the bedroom, pin him down, and take him hard and fast against the floor. But that’s not what Cas needs right now. So he takes his time doing the dishes and waits, waits until long after Cas has padded into the bedroom to dry his hands.

When Dean finally pushes open his door, he’s pleased to find Cas kneeling in front of his bed, his hands behind his back.

“Good boy,” Dean says, and closes the door.

As Castiel lowers himself to the floor of Dean’s bedroom, completely naked, he tries to calm his mind. Dean’s going to come in at any moment and he doesn’t want to be distracted. So Cas settles his weight back on his haunches and tangles his fingers together behind his back and waits. He listens to the clattering sounds of Dean washing their dishes in the kitchen, waiting nervously for whatever comes next.

But minutes pass and nothing comes. Dean’s still in the kitchen, and Cas sinks deeper into his own head. When Dean finally opens the door, Cas barely even notices, his head bowed and eyes half-shut.

“Good boy,” Dean says, startling him slightly, and Cas resists the urge to look up. Instead he straightens his posture, his cock already half-hard against his thigh. The door shuts again with a soft _click_ , followed by the sound of Dean’s footsteps crossing the room. Castiel watches as Dean’s feet walk by him, then out of his line of sight. He hears him open the drawer in the nightstand and pull something out.

Dean comes back and stands in front of Cas, who keeps his gaze firmly locked on the carpet and Dean’s bare feet, even while Dean is probably scrutinizing him from above.

“Hold out your hand,” Dean orders. Castiel complies, slightly curious, and still doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes as a bottle of lube is placed in his outstretched palm.

“Pour some into your hand and touch yourself.” Dean’s voice is smooth and even, and Castiel lets his confusion wash away as he opens the bottle and squeezes lube out into the palm of his other hand. He shuts the bottle and reaches down, gripping his cock and gasping as he strokes his length to full hardness.

“Don’t make a sound,” Dean warns. Castiel shrinks back slightly, ashamed, but keeps stroking himself, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and smearing the first drops of precome building up. The urge to buck up into his hand and moan is strong, but Castiel wills it away, conscious of Dean’s eyes on him. Pleasing Dean is what’s important, right now.

“Put the lube down and play with your balls.” Dean’s voice sends a shiver down Cas' spine as he complies, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep in a moan. “Good.”

Castiel can feel his orgasm building, not too close yet but definitely there, and shifts his weight slightly so he can rub at his perineum, the pressure making another bead of precome leak out of his cock.

“Lower,” Dean says, voice husky. There’s the rasp of a zipper and Cas keeps his head bowed, even though he desperately wants to look up to see proof that he’s doing something right, at least. Instead he lets his lube-slick fingers drop lower, until they’re resting at his hole, teasing pressure making his hips shift down. Castiel rubs the tip of his index finger against his puckered entrance.

“Wait.” Cas pauses, his hands stilling obediently. “Get more lube.”

Reluctantly, Castiel stops stroking his cock and reaches for the discarded bottle, applying more to his fingers until Dean tells him to continue. After a few seconds of circling his hole with wet fingers, Dean speaks again.

“Put one in.”

Castiel complies slowly, teasing in his index finger, trying to relax and hold his position at the same time. He nudges his way in past the ring of muscle, biting back a moan at the sensation. He pumps his finger in and out a few times, the angle just wrong enough for him not to be able to reach his prostate. Frustrated, Cas groans quietly as he flexes his wrist, trying to get deeper. Immediately, his head is jerked back sharply by Dean’s hand in his hair. He looks up, shame twisting in his gut, and keeps his gaze just below Dean’s eyes, looking past his cock, which is still heavy in Dean’s hand.

“What did I tell you, Cas?” Dean asks, not angrily. He sounds more disappointed than anything, and tears start to prickle at the back of Cas' eyes. He wants to turn his head away but Dean won’t let him. “Speak.”

“You told me not to make noise,” Castiel answers, his voice timid. He just wanted to please Dean, to do well, and he messed it up. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m so—”

“Shhh,” Dean says, his grip on Cas' hair loosening slightly. It’s no longer uncomfortably tight; now it’s just a gentle hold meant more to reassure than to keep him in place. “I know. I’m gonna give you one more chance, Cas. Don’t mess it up.”

Cas nods gratefully, unsure if thanking him would break the silence rule, and then stills, waiting for instruction.

“Add another finger,” Dean says after a moment, his hand retreating from Cas' hair. “Don’t come.”

The second finger burns, stretching Castiel’s rim slowly as he pushes in. His hips shove down against his fingers and they finally brush over his prostate. The hand still jerking his cock fumbles, and Cas bites down hard on his lip to keep in the noise that’s threatening to escape.

“Good,” Dean promises. The praise warms Castiel’s cheeks.

It goes like this for minutes or hours; Dean stroking his own cock as he watches Castiel, eventually ordering him to add more lube and a third finger. By the time Dean instructs him to slip in his pinky, Cas is holding back both tears and an orgasm. His hand is still around the base of his cock as he fucks himself with four fingers, jabbing into his prostate over and over again, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it.

“Stop.” The word jolts Cas out of his reverie, his fingers abruptly stilling inside himself as the order registers. “Take out your fingers.”

The slide out is slow and agonizing. The only things stopping Cas from coming are his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, and when he’s finally empty he feels like a part of him is missing.

“Get on the bed,” Dean orders, his voice sounding somewhat unstable. Castiel scrambles up, unsteady on his feet, and clambers onto the bed, pressing his cheek into a pillow and raising his ass up in the air, presenting himself for Dean, always for Dean.

“You’re so good for me,” Dean murmurs as he strips down, climbing onto the bed behind Castiel. A warm hand rubs down his back, from his collarbone to his lube-slick hole, and Castiel clenches his fists in the sheets to keep from begging for more. “You’re always so good, Cas.”

Thick fingers probe at his entrance, two slipping in easily. Castiel shoves back as much as he can manage, earning a sharp swat on the thigh. “You take what I give you.”

The fingers slip out and Castiel tenses when he hears the slick sound of lube being applied to Dean’s cock. Moments later, the head is pressing against his entrance, and Dean is sliding into him, slow and steady. The hand returns to Cas' lower back, rubbing soothing circles as Dean bottoms out, the tip of his cock nudging at Castiel’s prostate and making his own cock leak, drops of precome staining the sheets below him.

“You can make noise now, Cas. Don’t come, though,” Dean says, his voice strained. He doesn’t move for a long moment, and when he starts to pull out, Cas whines, the feeling of being full so _good_ and _right_. The head of Dean’s cock tugs at his rim from the inside and he moans, relishing in the matching noise Dean makes from behind him. He slams into Castiel without warning, and Cas muffles a cry into his pillow, overwrought and sensitive from the preparation.

Dean establishes a brutal pace, fucking him hard against the mattress, barely giving Cas time to adjust to the strength of his thrusts. In moments, Castiel is on the edge again, babbling out nonsense and pleas, begging Dean to just let him come.

“No,” Dean grunts, his fingers digging bruises into Castiel’s hips. “You don’t get to come until I say so, slut.”

Castiel keens into the sheets at that word, his hand flying down to wrap itself around the base of his cock again, leaving him off balance on just one elbow, his face smashed into the pillow beneath him. He can’t breathe and he needs to come and Dean’s cock is brushing against his prostate, fucking into him relentlessly, and he _needs to come_.

“Please!” Castiel sobs into the pillow, barely audible—but Dean seems to hear him and speeds up his rhythm, the sharp slap of skin echoing in the room. Just as Cas thinks he’s going to lose his mind, Dean’s hips stutter and he leans down close, blanketing Castiel’s back with his chest. His lips tickle Cas' ear and he exhales sharply on his next thrust.

“Come,” Dean whispers, and with a single stroke of his cock, Castiel obeys, his back arching and his entire body clenching down hard as he comes all over the sheets beneath him. Dean’s groan almost drowns out the sound of his own muffled shout as Cas' hole clamps around his cock, milking him, and then Dean’s coming inside of him. There’s a moment of stillness, Dean draped over Castiel and their breathing sharp and erratic. Castiel trembles through the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hips dropping down into his own mess, and tries to regain control of his breathing.

After a while, Dean slowly pushes himself up on his forearms, his soft cock slipping out of Castiel, followed by a slick trail of come and lube. Cas shudders at the feeling, dipping on the bed as Dean kneels beside him.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs, pushing Castiel’s sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

Cas nods, turning and reaching his arms out. He lets Dean pull him in close, tucked under his arm and safe, if a little sticky. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I might have to change the sheets before bed, though.” Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s collarbone, content for the time being. He feels loose and relaxed, in more ways than one.

Castiel is starting to drift off by the time Dean sits up, tugging Cas with him. He grumbles, but as Dean steers him toward the master bathroom, he can’t deny that a shower is exactly what he needs right now. Dean turns on the water and guides them both in once it’s warm, letting Cas sag against him under the warm spray.

“How you doing?” Dean asks as his hands gently rinse the come off of Cas' stomach. Cas hums, his head leaning back on Dean’s shoulder and his eyes shut. “Talk to me, angel.”

“It was good,” Castiel finally says. “It was what I needed.”

“Anything you didn’t like?”

“No,” he says firmly. Dean kisses the side of his forehead, grabbing the shampoo.

“Good.” Dean pours a dollop on his hand and reaches up, working it into Cas' hair and rubbing his scalp soothingly. Castiel smiles and hums again, content to lean into Dean and let him wash them both. The water runs over his skin and washes away all the sweat and come and lube, and when Castiel emerges he feels calm. He’ll call Gabriel to reconcile tomorrow, maybe have lunch or something, but for now he’s content by Dean’s side.

Cas dries himself off, and is then attacked by Dean, who rubs a towel into his hair to stop the dripping. He laughs and tries to shove him off, but Dean won’t let him up until he’s sure Cas' hair won’t be soaking into the pillows.

“Sorry about that,” he comments idly as he watches Dean change the bedsheets, opening up the window and flicking on the fan. Cas waits by the door while he finishes, clad in one of Dean’s old t-shirts and his own boxers. The shirt still smells reassuringly of engine grease and Dean’s deodorant.

“I don’t know why I told you to go in here,” Dean grumbles. “We have a playroom for a _reason_.” Cas just shrugs and clambers into bed next to him, snuggling down into the blanket while Dean sits propped up against the headboard, a book in his hands. As Dean strokes a hand through Cas' hair, he starts to drift off, content and warm and safe in Dean’s bed.

The next morning, Dean wakes up alone. He’s somewhat concerned until he sees that the bedroom door is cracked open, and that Cas is puttering around in the kitchen. Dean slips out of bed, puts on a pair of sweatpants, and heads out into the kitchen.

“Oh,” Cas says, disappointed, when he sees Dean awake. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“It’s okay,” Dean replies, eyeing the pan on the stove. Cas had mentioned once that he couldn’t cook, and he’s a little bit concerned for his relatively expensive cooking equipment. Castiel catches his wary glance and smiles reassuringly.

“I’m making scrambled eggs,” he proclaims proudly. “It’s the only thing I know how to make.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Castiel smiles softly at the praise and ducks his head, sprinkling some cheese over the eggs on the stove.

Dean watches Cas finish making their food, and eats it with a smile, even though the toast is just a little bit burnt. When Cas takes a bite of it he scowls, but Dean nudges his leg under the table and smiles.

“The eggs are great, Cas.”

While they’re cleaning up the kitchen, Cas scrubbing the dishes and Dean drying, Dean’s phone rings from the bedroom. Excusing himself, he rushes to answer it, not checking the caller ID as he answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dean!” Charlie’s voice comes over the line, way too chipper for his liking. It’s not even nine yet.

“Charlie! What’s up?” He makes his way back into the kitchen, where Cas is just finishing the last of the dishes and putting them away.

“Well, I haven’t seen you in ages, and Jo’s been getting antsy, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet up sometime this week? I know you’re busy with your new boytoy—”

“His _name_ is Cas,” Dean says indignantly, earning a sharp look from the man in question.

“Well, whoever he is, he sounds dreamy, and I want to meet him.”

“Casually?” Dean asks, because when he’s had subs in the past, sometimes Charlie would come over with Jo or whoever and they’d keep their dynamics. There was never really any ‘sharing’ or anything, but it’s something he enjoys doing in a relaxed setting. When he gets over to the houses of his coworkers, there’s usually some dynamic kept in the household. This is true especially for Dean’s financial officer Michael, who has both his subs ready to serve whenever Dean comes over.

“Yeah, I figured I’d bring some wine, Call of Duty, whatever. I want to get to know this kid.”

“That sounds good,” Dean replies. “I’ll check with Cas and see what day works.”

“Great!” She exclaims, Dean wincing at the volume. “Sorry. I’ve been awake for too long.”

“Get some rest,” he chastises. “The world will keep turning without your input for a few hours, and I’m sure Jo doesn’t exactly appreciate your working hours.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But soon after, Charlie hangs up with the promise of sleeping soon, and Dean turns back to Cas, who’s settled back on the couch with whichever one of Dean’s books he’s currently working through.

“So that was my friend Charlie,” Dean says, sitting down next to him. Cas looks up, obviously curious despite not wanting to ask what the conversation was about. “She wanted to know if she and her girlfriend could come over sometime this week, get to know you a little bit.”

“I suppose,” Cas answers. “I have late class on Friday, and Anna has a swim meet on Tuesday, but anything else is fine.”

“Great. Charlie and Jo are like sisters to me,” he explains. “They’re the closest thing I have to family in this city, except for Benny, and I’d really like you to meet them.”

Castiel smiles, then, long and slow. It lights up his whole face and Dean can feel himself flushing, but he forces himself to hold Cas' gaze until the younger man breaks it by leaning in and kissing him. This quickly devolves into Cas pulling Dean closer, their mouths still locked together. The kisses are deep but not passionate, and the two of them loosely make out until Cas breaks away, his lips puffy and red.

“I’m going to, um,” he says breathily, eyes darting down to Dean’s own lips, which can’t look much better than Cas'. “I’m going to call Gabriel.”

“Got anything to do today?” Dean asks, then clears his throat.

“No,” Cas replies, eyes returning to meet Dean’s. “Nothing.”

Dean smiles. “Good.”

They don’t leave the house for the rest of the day.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Their four month anniversary passes two days later without fanfare. Dean orders pizza and they curl up on the couch after Cas arrives home from class. During commercial breaks, he talks about the different classes he’s taking. Dean doesn’t really follow most of it; Cas is a junior and by now he’s completed his basic requirements and has moved on to more complex studies, but he listens as Cas talks about the Renaissance and old painters and writers he’s never heard of. The way Cas' face lights up when he talks is enough to keep Dean engaged for hours, and when the topic turns to modern literature and art Dean can finally really join the conversation.

They talk about Vonnegut and Game of Thrones and Marvel and other books, movies, and TV shows until late at night, when Cas finally drags him to the bed, claiming that he’s exhausted from all of Dean’s wrong opinions about Tony Stark.

“He’s a good guy at heart,” Cas argues as he shucks his button-down, slipping into one of Dean’s soft band shirts, which seem to be his favorite thing to wear. This one happens to be Zeppelin, and when Dean turns to see him wearing just that shirt and nothing else, he can’t help but pull Cas into a quick kiss.

“He betrayed Cap,” Dean says firmly as he pulls away to crawl under the covers. “If he was really a good guy, why would he join forces with the government to help hunt the other Avengers? They were doing good things!”

“He wanted to protect them,” Cas explains, sliding next to him and burrowing under the blankets. It’s not even that cold, but Dean decides he can forgive him when Cas wiggles his ass against Dean’s crotch.

“Do that ag—wait, no. You’re not winning that easily. How can you claim that _Tony Stark_ has ever once had the moral high ground?” Cas sighs and stops moving.

“You’re looking at it all wrong. You’re thinking about his _actions_ , Dean, not his _motivations_. They’re two completely different things.”

They stay awake arguing for longer than is probably advisable, considering that Cas has to take Anna to school tomorrow, but in Dean’s eyes it’s worth it. He’s learning about Cas, and there’s not a word for the emotion that rises up in him when he looks over and sees that Cas has fallen asleep in the middle of a sentence, his mouth open slightly and his breaths slow and deep. It’s like fondness but deeper, more personal.

Dean doesn’t want to call it love.

He wakes up to Cas' alarm blaring at five-thirty in the morning. Cas jolts in his arms and swears when he almost topples off the bed; in the middle of the night they’d managed to gravitate to the edge of the bed, and Dean has to pull him tight to keep him from falling.

Cas makes a deep noise of anguish when he looks at his too-bright phone screen and buries his head in the pillow, looking like he’s going to head straight back to sleep.

“Cas, wake up,” Dean groans into his pillow, because this truly is ungodly. The sun isn’t even up, for fuck’s sake. “You’ve gotta take Anna.”

“Fuck off,” Cas groans back, and Dean thinks that they really are a match made in heaven. But eventually Cas rises from the bed, grumbling adorably as he pulls on a change of clothes. Most of his clothes live in Dean’s apartment now, he even has his own drawer in the closet. With a quick, morning-breath kiss, Cas is gone, leaving Dean to sleep in for another four hours until he has to get up for a conference call from a company who’s looking to buy Purgatory (not that Dean will let them).

When the call ends, he shoots a quick email to Benny, giving him a broad version of the call and promising to give him the details when he comes in later that day. He still has a few hours to kill before he does, though, so he grabs a book and sits down on the couch that they spend most of their free time on. Cas won’t be home tonight; Anna has a swim meet that won’t be done until six, and then Cas has a shift at the diner at six thirty, so he’ll go home to his own apartment tonight.

The thought is unsettling. Dean’s stomach twists at the mental image of Cas coming home—not home, not really—tomorrow with bruises from his brother’s fists. Just thinking about it makes Dean want to beat the man to a pulp. Luke Novak is the reason Cas flinches when Dean raises his voice on the phone, or gestures too wildly when they’re debating, and for that Dean won’t ever forgive him.

Trying to shake the thoughts out of his head, Dean looks back at his book, but he’s quickly interrupted by his buzzer. He huffs an agitated breath and stands, walking to the door and pressing the intercom.

“Yes?” He asks impatiently. He hasn’t ordered anything online recently, so it can only be a solicitor.

“Can I come up?” Cas asks from the other end, making Dean startle. He buzzes Cas in immediately, not asking why he’s here, and waits the two minutes until Cas is opening the door.

“Is everything okay?” Dean asks as Cas kisses his cheek quickly, grabbing his school bag from where it had been hanging next to the door.

“Everything’s fine,” Cas assures him, sounding slightly winded. “I went back to the apartment to grab my school bag and then I remembered that I left it here. I need to start keeping a list of what’s here and what’s there.”

It’s a joke, Dean knows, but he grabs Cas' wrists, opening his mouth to say something. He’s cut off by Cas' gasp. The younger man tries to pull his arm away, but Dean tugs up his sleeve before he can.

There, on Cas' wrist, is a fresh purple bruise in the distinct shape of a hand. Like someone had grabbed his wrist, like Dean had, and then gripped it tighter and pulled. Cas looks away, ashamed, when Dean glances up at him.

“Maybe you should move in, then,” he says softly, releasing Cas' wrist and stepping away. Cas shoulders his bag and shifts on his feet, still looking away from Dean.

“I have to go,” Cas says, backing towards the door. Dean watches him go, but calls out before the door shuts.

“I’m serious, Cas. Think about it.” Cas doesn’t answer, but Dean sees his face soften as the door shuts with a _click_.

_That went well_ , he thinks, and starts to get ready for work.

Castiel leaves work that night exhausted. He’d barely gotten any sleep last night, thanks to Dean and his stupid certainty that Tony Stark was a villain, and then he’d had to wake up early for Anna. After almost falling asleep in one of his classes, almost going deaf at the swim meet, and then almost breaking a stack of plates at the diner, all he wants is to come home and pass out on the couch that doubles as his bed.

Of course, that doesn’t happen, because the universe hates him. Instead Castiel can hear Luke and Gabriel shouting at each other from two stories down, their voices echoing down the stairway. When he reaches their floor, Castiel leans against the wall and waits a long moment with his eyes closed before he opens the door. The yelling doesn’t pause, so he takes an immediate right and drops his bag in the room he shares with Anna, sitting heavily on the couch.

“It’s not my fault, okay?” Luke screams from the other room. His words are slurred. “It’s not my fault they’re fucking dead, okay Gabe? You can blame me all you want but it’s not my fault!”

“I never said that was your fault!” Gabriel spits. Cas leans his head back against the wall and sighs. “I said that if you got off your ass and got a fucking job, then maybe we could afford to keep this apartment!”

“What, whoring isn’t paying enough for you?” Luke sneers. “Maybe you should pimp out Cassie, too. I know plenty of guys who’d pay for a piece of his ass.”

There’s a dull _crack_ and Castiel flinches. He knows the sound of someone getting punched, and he’s pretty sure that Gabriel just socked their brother in the jaw. With another heavy sigh, he gets up and makes his way to the kitchen. He sees Luke first, cradling his jaw in one hand with the other balled into a fist, glaring daggers at Gabriel, who’s trembling but holding his ground.

“Please don’t,” Castiel says softly. He’s so tired, he just wants to sleep, but he can’t stand by while Gabriel is getting hurt. He just can’t.

“Why not?” Luke asks mockingly. He cracks his neck, grinning when Cas flinches at the sound. “Scared, faggot?”

“Don’t hurt him,” Cas says. Even to himself, he sounds tired. He’s sagging on his feet, leaning back into the counter for support. Luke doesn’t respond, and for a while they all stand there in silence, the only noise in the air is the sound of their breathing.

“Where’s Anna?” Castiel finally asks, directing the question at Gabriel.

“Out with Hael. I think she’s sleeping over.” Gabriel sounds as tired as he is, and Cas knows that he still has to make his way to Purgatory to work. He thinks for a little bit, and then decides to make another bad decision.

“I’m moving in with Dean,” he says. Immediately, Gabriel’s gaze sharpens.

“Absolutely not,” Gabriel snaps. Luke’s mouth twitches up and he smiles at Cas like he knows something Cas doesn’t.

“I’m an adult, Gabriel. You can’t tell me what to do with my life.” Cas is trying to be rational, but he’s upset and everyone in the room knows it.

“I’m looking out for you, Cas,” Gabriel argues.

“We had this conversation last weekend, Gabe. Let’s not have it again.”

“It has been three months, Castiel. Three. You barely know the man, and you’re moving in with him?”

“I think it’s great,” Luke interjects. “Cassie’s all grown up, taking control of his life.” He smirks at Cas darkly. “Guess sucking Winchester’s cock is worth getting out of here.”

“Fuck off, Luke,” Gabriel says sharply. Cas lets his head fall back against the plaster of the wall. He’s so, so tired.

“Hey, we all know he’s a faggot.” Luke collapses back into his chair at the table and grabs a half-empty beer bottle. He takes a long swig and then slams it back down, fixing Castiel with a stare. The way he’s looking at Cas makes him want to squirm, so he pushes away from the counter and starts to walk back to his room.

“We’re not done talking about this, Castiel!” Gabriel calls back after him.

“Yes, we are.”

Finally, Luke speaks again, shouting something at Cas' retreating back.

“Can’t wait for Anna to hear that you’re abandoning us. Like father, like son, Castiel.”

Cas slams the door behind him, locking it and then flinging himself face-first onto the bed. If Anna’s not coming back tonight then he can sleep here on an actual mattress, even if it smells too heavily of perfume.

Luke is wrong. Cas isn’t like their father, he wouldn’t do that. He’s leaving because he loves Dean, because he can’t stand coming home every night and being used as a punching bag. Their father left for no reason they could see and got himself killed. Cas isn’t like that.

And where does Luke get off, saying that he’s abandoning them? It wasn’t Castiel who disappeared for two years and then showed up on his doorstep with a thieving girlfriend and a slew of substance abuse problems. Castiel buries his head into his pillow and shouts, slamming his fist down on the mattress in frustration. He feels so fucking guilty, because he knows that Anna’s going to have to fend off Luke’s bursts of rage now that he’s not going to be there to take them for her.

Everything is so _complicated_ , except when he’s with Dean. When he’s with Dean, Cas doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, or be constantly on edge, because there’s no blow coming. Dean wouldn’t hurt him, not without cause, and even then Cas would know it was coming, would accept it. He trusts Dean, like he hasn’t trusted anyone since his father.

He can only hope now that that trust won’t come back to bite him.

Dean’s in the middle of cooking dinner when Cas comes up behind him out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle and burying his face between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“I should put a bell on you,” Dean jokes. He hadn’t heard Cas come home, but he’s very much here now, and very much squeezing the air out of Dean’s lungs. “Everything okay?”

“I’m tired,” Cas mumbles against the soft wool of Dean’s sweater. Dean turns around, dropping the spatula and pulling Cas into his chest.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says into Cas' mess of curls. “Just a few hours, okay? If you want you can fall asleep while Charlie and I play video games.”

This pulls a snort out of Cas, who looks up at Dean in amusement. “You play video games?”

“Excuse you, mister. Gaming is an _art_.” Cas laughs, and Dean mentally claps himself on the back for managing to cheer him up.

“Obviously not one they teach you in school.” Dean winks, and then startles as he hears the buzzer.

“Clearly not. Can you buzz them in, Cas? I don’t want this to burn.” Cas turns to let Charlie and Jo in, and Dean turns back to the small grill he’s set up on the stove.

He gets lost in the cooking and it takes him by surprise when Charlie attack-hugs him from the side, knocking him back a few steps and making him drop the spatula.

“Charlie!” He grins and wraps her up in a hug, lifting her off her feet and laughing when she shrieks.

“Put me down! Jo, help!” Jo laughs from the hallway and enters as Dean’s putting Charlie down, a case of beer in her right hand and Cas' forearm in her left.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was this cute?” Jo asks, like she’s offended. Cas is staring, wide-eyed, at Dean, begging for salvation. “Kid, you could do so much better than Dean-o here.”

“What’s cooking, Dean?” Charlie asks, gently steering Jo away from Cas. Cas gratefully shoots her a look, sliding into one of the seats at the counter. Dean grins and pops the cap off a beer bottle, sliding it over to Cas, who smiles in appreciation.

“We are having tacos,” Dean says to Charlie. “I’ve grilled some chicken and some carne asada, there’s some salsa in the fridge, and I warmed up some tortillas.”

Jo grins at his words, and immediately grabs a plate from the cupboard and shoves him aside.

“I apologize for my heathen girlfriend,” Charlie says to Cas, who smiles and takes a drink of beer. “She can be a little rough around the edges.”

“What does that say about Dean, then?” Jo says, her mouth already full. Dean chuckles and pushes her away from the stove, piling up two plates and sliding them over to Charlie and Cas.

“It says that your mother was an excellent woman who raised him well,” Charlie teases. Jo scowls and socks Charlie gently in the arm, but there’s no heat behind it. Dean can see the questions in Cas' eyes—he’s wondering what Jo’s mother has to do with Dean's’ childhood, but he doesn’t ask them, choosing instead to ask Charlie what she does for a living.

“She’s a hacktivist,” Dean jokes, loading up a plate for himself and sitting down between Cas and Charlie.

“Dean, it’s not hacking if you get paid. I work for Roman, Inc.,” she says to Cas. “Doing Very Secret things for the head Dick himself.”

“Doesn’t he own half the planet by now?” Jo muses. Charlie winks at Cas, and Dean can see him relaxing slowly into the evening. Charlie has a way of putting people at ease. They finish their meal in between small talk, everyone going back for seconds (and, in Jo’s case, thirds) before Charlie rummages through her bag and pulls out two DVD cases.

“So,” she announces, with the air of someone who’s about to present a life-or-death decision. “Cas-ti-el.”

“Yes ma’am?” Cas answers drily.

“Black Ops...” She gestures to one of the cases. “...Or the Harry Potter video games?”

Jo is very clearly mouthing ‘Black Ops’ behind Charlie’s back, but Cas ignores her, and Dean watches as he grins at Charlie and points to one of the game cases.

“Harry Potter,” he chooses. Dean couldn’t be more proud. Jo is disappointed, of course, but she restrains herself as they pull out Dean’s old console and set up the game.

“I didn’t even know you had one of these,” Cas muses, grinning at him. Dean grins back and shrugs.

“I’m a nerd at heart. You can thank Charlie for that, by the way. She was the most annoying damn teenager I’ve ever met.” Cas is still smiling at him, and it makes something in Dean’s chest warm when Cas leans against his arm.

“Takes one to know one, Winchester,” Jo smirks. Dean scowls and lobs a chip at her. She throws one right back, and they’re on the verge of a full-on food fight when Charlie clears her throat and glances between them, eyebrows raised.

“As much as I’m sure I’d enjoy watching this, Cas and I want to play.” A quick look at Cas confirms this—he’s clearly trying to hold back a smile but his fingers are twitching around the controller. Dean lets his righteous fury at Jo melt away as he inches closer to Cas on the couch, grinning happily when Castiel burrows into his side.

“You guys are adorable!” Charlie exclaims, and Dean doesn’t realize that she’s taken a picture until she’s waving her phone in front of their faces.

“Hey!” He protests, because no matter how cute Cas might be in that picture, Dean has a _reputation_ to uphold, dammit. Charlie just laughs and texts him the picture, evidenced by the buzz that comes from his phone.

“Can you send that to me too?” Cas asks, shyly. Charlie winks and takes down his number, and a moment after that Cas' phone buzzes with the message.

“Okay, now we can _finally_ play,” Jo says. The music from the game is playing cheerfully in the background, and as they all settle back into their respective seats, Dean presses a firm kiss to Castiel’s forehead.

“Thanks for tonight,” he whispers. Cas smiles up at him, like he understands what Dean’s really trying to say.

“It’s a shame you made such a bad impression on my family,” he says idly. Something aches in Dean’s chest at those words, but he pushes it down and tugs Cas even closer, if possible.

“I don’t need your family to like me. I need you to like me.” Cas' grin widens and Dean can’t help but smile dopily back. Cas does things to him, and Dean would probably be scared right now if he weren’t too busy being so damn happy.

“You guys are gross. Come on, or we’ll be here all night,” Jo complains. Charlie whacks her in the arm, and Dean glares, but there’s no heat in it. Jo’s teasing, and Cas laughs like he’s grown up around her and her biting sense of humor.

“I thought you didn’t want to play this game,” Cas says. Jo scowls for a minute, but the next time she meets Dean’s eye, five minutes into the game she supposedly didn’t want to play, she flashes a thumbs-up and winks at him. It’s the closest to approval he’s ever going to get, so Dean smiles gratefully and then proceeds to hex her.

When Charlie and Jo finally leave, well after midnight, Dean and Cas practically collapse into bed. After spending a long few minutes getting comfortable, they finally settle into an easy silence. Dean’s almost completely asleep when Cas speaks into the darkness.

“I talked to Luke and Gabe yesterday.”

“Hmmphgg?” Dean asks, witty as always. Cas snorts a bit, but sobers quickly. Dean’s more awake now, and he waits for Cas to speak again.

“I want to move in with you.” And, _oh_ , that is not what Dean had expected.

“Are you sure? Gabe didn’t try and talk you out of it?”

“Of course he did. But I want to do this, and he doesn’t control what I do with my life.” Cas pauses, and when Dean doesn’t fill the silence, he speaks again, uneasily. “That is, if the offer is still open.”

“It is!” Dean exclaims, probably too quickly. “Absolutely.”

“Thank you for offering,” Cas says quietly. “I’ve spent so much time bouncing in between homes, it feels nice to think about something stable.”

Dean thinks maybe he should be freaked out. Cas is talking about this like he’s planning to stay for a long time, and Dean’s never worked like that before. He’s never had the opportunity to really live with someone he was in a relationship with, and the way Cas is talking makes him think that this could be a forever kind of thing. That should be scary, right?

Except, it isn’t. The only thing Dean feels right now is satisfaction, because Cas is going to live with _him_ and not his abusive shitbag of a brother, and Dean can’t make himself feel anything but happy about that. And maybe the idea of a forever kind of thing isn’t scaring him because that’s what he wants, too. When he looks at Cas, Dean sees someone he wants to be there for, for as long as possible. He doesn’t ever want to say goodbye.

“As long as you want me, Cas,” Dean mumbles, because he really is tired, and he’s not making a lot of sense. But when Cas gropes around in the sheets to find his hand and then squeezes hard, he thinks that Cas understands him anyway.

“Good night, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.”

Two days later, Cas comes home from work—because it is home, now, he has a key and everything—to see Dean waiting for him on the couch. His leg is jumping nervously, foot tapping, and when he hears the door open, he looks up sharply. Unease pools in the pit of Cas' stomach, and he drops his school bag onto one of the shelves next to the door.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, approaching Dean. Before he reaches him, Dean stands abruptly. He seems off, nervous, and Cas doesn't like it. Dean's usually so impeccably in control of his life, and this is throwing him off.

“I want to show you something.” Castiel nods uneasily, following Dean into the bedroom when motioned. Once they're there, Dean opens the second drawer of the nightstand—not the top one where Castiel knows he keeps the lube and a few selective toys, but the one just below it—which he's never seen opened.

Dean draws out a wooden box, a little larger than an average novel, and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

"You said you wanted stability," he says. "And I know you're moving in and everything, but I wanted to give you something else."

He holds out the box to Cas, who takes it uncertainly. He's not sure what Dean means; but from what he said, it can't be anything bad.

"I ordered it a few weeks ago, actually. It just came yesterday, which was pretty nice timing." Cas is still holding the box, running his fingers over the polished wood. What could possibly be in there that Dean would have gone to such lengths to get? Finally, Cas opens the latch and lifts the lid. What he sees steals his breath from his throat.

There, nestled in red velvet, is a collar. It’s made out of thick leather, and beautiful without being elaborate. There’s a D-ring on the front, arching over a brass plaque. Castiel reverently lifts it out of the box to read the inscription.

_Castiel  
_ _Property of Dean Winchester_

Next to him, Dean stands with baited breath, waiting for his response.

“It’s beautiful.”

“So you’ll wear it?”

“Of course.” Dean’s smile could light up the entire room. He just beams at Cas for a while, who keeps running his fingers over the thick leather and smooth brass. Without taking his eyes off the collar, he asks: "How much did this cost?"

"Don't worry about it," Dean insists firmly. "It was worth every cent."

"I don't… I don't know what to say," Castiel admits. He's overwhelmed, to say the least, but in the best kind of way. Dean smiles at him, soft and easy, and Castiel relaxes into himself.

"Do you want me to put it on for you?" Dean gestures down to the stiff leather in Cas' hands. Cas nods, putting the box down on the bed and offering him the collar. Dean steps closer to him, taking it from his hands, and brushes his lips across the empty expanse of Cas' neck. He shivers at the touch, and the sound of the buckle on the collar opening. Dean tilts his head up and presses a single, chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“Do you trust me?” The leather slides across Cas' skin as his eyes search Dean’s.

“Always.” The buckle clicks, and Cas lets his eyes flutter shut. The weight is comfortable and nonrestrictive, not limiting his breathing or movement. He decides in that moment that if he never had to take the collar off, he’d be happy.

“Good boy,” Dean murmurs. The words send a shiver down Castiel's spine. He feels exposed, standing in front of Dean, even fully clothed. Heat flares low in his stomach when Dean leans forward to kiss him and pulls him in with the ring that sits just under his Adam's apple. Cas' hands hang limply by his sides, though he itches to reach up and wrap them around Dean.

"Go into the playroom and pick out a pair of cuffs," Dean murmurs in his ear as he draws away. Castiel nods obediently, and turns to go before Dean tugs him back with the two fingers slipped under his collar. "You can pick out one toy."

"Thank you, sir," Castiel replies, his head bowed. Dean gently pushes him out the door, and Castiel makes his way to the playroom closet, which is filled with toys he's seen, experienced, or never heard of. He picks out the pair of cuffs he remembers being the most comfortable; a black leather pair lined with fake fur that Dean's used on him twice.

With the easy part over, Castiel surveys the rest of the closet. There are dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps, and so much more. Everything under the sun, seemingly. Cas has no idea what he wants to choose. There are several things that look fun, things that he's willing to try, but nothing really jumps out at him. It's more Dean's area of expertise, after all.

Finally, after some consideration, Cas selects a glass plug with some interesting-looking ridges. He figures that Dean will probably come up with some creative way to use it. Castiel makes his way back to their bedroom, still fully clothed, and pushes open the door.

He's not sure what he expected to see, but Dean lying naked on the bed, slowly fisting his cock with his eyes trained on the door, that wasn't one of them. Cas almost drops the cuffs and plug, but he manages to regain his composure fairly quickly and stays standing in the doorway, waiting until Dean nods him into the room.

"Put them on the bed and strip," Dean orders, his voice husky. Castiel hurries to obey, noticing how Dean's lip quirks when he notices Cas' selections. Once he's naked, save for the collar tight around his throat, he stands with his arms behind his back and head bowed at the foot of the bed.

"Come here and bring me the cuffs." Castiel waits uncertainly for a moment, unsure if he's expected to walk to the side of the bed, but Dean just nods down toward his bed and Cas takes it as his cue. In a brief moment of ingenuity, he picks up the chain attaching the cuffs together between his teeth, and crawls up the bed until he can deposit them in Dean's lap.

Dean's eyes are hooded and he's stopped touching his cock. He watches Castiel darkly as he settles back on his heels and resumes his position, head bowed.

"Whore," Dean growls. The word makes Cas' half-hard cock twitch with arousal. Dean smirks, pleased with himself, and sits up, kneeling forward so that his face is inches from Castiel's. He reaches behind himself and threads the cuffs between the bars of the headboard, then unlocks them. He takes each of Castiel's arms in turn and locks them in securely. Dean manhandles him onto his back, arms pulled tight above him by the cuffs, and then settles himself between Castiel's legs, pushing his knees up into his chest.

"Who do you belong to?" Dean asks roughly. He grabs the lube from the nightstand and wastes no time in slicking up his fingers, circling Cas' hole with deft fingers.

"You, sir," Castiel gasps as Dean slips his first finger in, the shock of cold lube and quick penetration enough to have him squirming and tugging against the cuffs. With the addition of a little more lube, Dean pushes in his middle finger as well, scissoring and spreading them. When he brushes against Castiel's prostate, Cas gasps and arches up, pushing himself further down onto Dean's fingers.

"Greedy," Dean chastises. Instead of withdrawing, however, he works a third finger into Castiel's hole, stretching the muscle. "Is this what you want, Cas?"

"Please!" He cries as Dean starts to seek out his prostate, grinning triumphantly when he finds it, proceeding to rub firmly over the hard bundle of nerves. Cas writhes on the bed, unable to escape the onslaught of sensation. When Dean lifts a hand and wraps it around his cock, stroking in time to the fingers fucking into his hole, Castiel cries out wordlessly.

"Such a slut," Dean says. Castiel can see desire in the back of his eyes, and for a moment he's irrationally proud that _he_ is the only one who gets to see Dean like this. The only one who gets to carry the whole of Dean's attention in this way. The collar around his neck proves that.

When Dean's fingers finally withdraw, leaving him empty and clenching around cold air, Castiel whimpers. Dean chuckles fondly, slicking up his cock and deftly positioning it at the twitching entrance to Castiel's ass. His hands run possessively along Cas' flank, and Cas arches up into the touch in a way that’s almost cat-like.

"What do you want, Cas?" Dean taunts, locking their gazes together. For a moment Cas scrambles to understand the words, his mind too focused on Dean, only Dean. Once he understands, however, he answers quickly.

"Want you to fuck me. Please sir, I _need_ you to fuck me," he begs, and is instantly rewarded with Dean gripping his own cock and pushing into Cas in one long, smooth stroke.

"Good slut," Dean praises. He leans over and rests his hands against Cas' collarbone, his thumbs just barely grazing the bottom of the collar as he presses Castiel down into the mattress. Slowly, he starts to move his hips, their eyes locking as Dean fucks little gasping sounds out of Cas. Then Dean’s cock brushes his prostate and he cries out, trying to push his hips down. Dean just tightens his hold and increases the pace of his thrusts, and Castiel is gone, bucking and writhing underneath him. He feels full, complete, at peace. And Dean’s grip on him is further improved by the restriction of the collar, like another set of strong fingers wrapped around his throat.

“Can I come?” Castiel gasps, pushing up against Dean’s hands because he can.

“No,” Dean growls, snapping his hips particularly hard. Castiel bucks, tugging his arms against his bonds until the headboard creaks ominously.

“You want to know why you can’t come, Cas?” Dean asks, panting between words and never once ceasing the ruthless motion of his hips, driving Castiel insane. He’s beyond words, choosing instead to nod, and hopes Dean can make it out amongst all the other movement. “It’s because you’re mine, because I _own_ you when you’re wearing that fucking collar.”

Cas groans, his eyes slipping shut. He arches into Dean’s next thrust before letting himself go completely limp on the bed. Because Dean’s right, Dean does own him, right now. He doesn’t have to think. Doesn’t have to act without instruction, because everything he does with the collar wrapped around his neck is for Dean, because of Dean. And Castiel loves it. He still wants to come, still whimpers when Dean’s cock strikes his prostate, but everything else is put aside in favor of relishing in Dean’s touch and the thoughtless praise whispered into the warm air between their lips.

“So good, Cas,” Dean gasps out when Castiel clenches around him, “So fucking good for me.”

Dean’s thrusts are getting erratic, his fingers flexing on Cas' shoulders, and it isn’t long before he starts to come with a small cry, burying his length deep inside Castiel’s hole and letting his come spill into him. Cas' cock twitches, painfully neglected against his abdomen. Dean presses his forehead into Cas' neck and kisses his shoulder gently.

“Don’t let anything spill,” he warns, slowly withdrawing and leaving Castiel feeling too empty. He whines as he clenches his hole, trying to obey, and Dean smirks down at him, reaching for the plug Castiel had chosen earlier. Wordlessly, Dean works the plug into him, grinning when he gasps at the stimulation. Cas bites his lip and tries not to fuck himself down onto the cold glass.

“You’re not done yet,” Dean reassures him, tapping once on the flared base of the plug and then reaching to unlock the cuffs around Cas' wrists. As soon as he’s loose, Dean is pulling him up, giving Cas barely any time to adjust before he’s being pushed to the ground, the bulbed tip of the plug pressing firmly against his prostate.

Dean pulls on a pair of boxers, wiping himself off with barely a glance at Cas. He’s on his knees on the floor, wrists instinctively crossed behind his back, and as soon as Dean turns to look at him Castiel ducks his head, trying to calm his breathing.

“Follow me,” Dean says off-handedly, walking to the door with an air that suggests that he doesn’t care if Castiel follows his instructions or not. Of course, Cas does, pitching forward onto all fours and crawling gingerly behind him, biting harder on his lip to try and stifle the moans building in his chest when he moves.

After a moment of hesitation in the hallway, Dean makes his way over to the couch, flopping down carelessly into the cushions without looking at Cas. He picks up the remote and settles on a cooking show by the time Castiel has situated himself at Dean’s feet. He’s just settling back on his heels when Dean pulls him up, tugging Cas around and onto his lap. His legs are splayed wide, knees pressed to either side of Dean’s own thighs as he faces away from him, looking towards the TV.

“If you come before I say you can,” Dean warns lowly, both hands rubbing Cas' thighs, deceptively gentle. “I won’t let you come again for a week.”

Castiel swallows, letting his eyes flicker shut as Dean kisses along the back of his neck, nipping at the fresh leather as his hands move closer to Cas' hole. Soon, one brushes the base of the plug, and then Dean grips it tightly. The first pump is small, more of a twist, really, but it’s enough to make Cas try and squirm away from the pleasure, scared of it becoming too much. He’s punished with a firm swat to his thigh, one that makes him jerk again and gasp. Dean lets that go, though, in favor of pulling the plug out slightly, stretching Cas' rim.

This goes on as the cooking program continues, Dean finally graduating to fucking Castiel with the plug until he’s a squirming, sobbing mess, struggling to keep his hands from pushing Dean away. The ridges Cas had first deemed “interesting” are now torture, rubbing against his sensitive walls and prostate until he’s sure he’s going to come at any moment.

“Please!” He finally calls out, breaking the silence rule in favor of begging for mercy. “Please, sir, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Shhh,” Dean whispers into his ear, slowing his movements until they finally stop, the come-slick plug still halfway in Castiel’s ass. “As soon as the commercials are over, you can come.” He resumes his motions, then, his other hand sliding up to cup Cas' leaking cock.

The next four minutes are torture. Castiel alternates between watching the TV without seeing any of it, and trying to stop himself from coming with the added stimulation of Dean stroking his cock leisurely, thumbing at the head and smearing Cas' precome around.

When the commercials finally end and Cas registers the familiar face of the cooking lady, his hips buck involuntarily. At that moment, Dean twists the plug inside him, ruthlessly rubbing it against his prostate until Castiel is tensing, arching his back, and coming all over his stomach and Dean’s hand with a sharp cry. The pleasure is sharp, stronger because it was denied to him previously, and Castiel trembles with the aftershocks long after he’s spent himself.

Slowly, Dean helps him off the couch, back down onto his knees on the floor, and Castiel rests his head against Dean’s thigh, noticing the erection tenting his boxers but too exhausted to do anything about it. Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t move to stroke himself. He merely threads a hand through Castiel’s hair and scratches his scalp gently, lovingly.

“You okay with staying down there for a bit?” He asks, grabbing the remote again and pulling up the guide.

“Yes sir,” Castiel replies. He’s exhausted and trembling and covered in his own come, but he’s content here, leaning into Dean’s leg with the strict leather collar wrapped around his throat. It reminds him that he is home, that he finally belongs.

It feels good, Castiel thinks, to belong with Dean.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The first time Castiel brings it up, he isn’t wearing his collar. It’s a lazy Saturday and Dean’s sitting on the couch watching a movie, Cas kneeling at his feet as Dean strokes a gentle hand through his hair. They’re both somewhat clothed, in boxers and loose t-shirts.

“You said, a while ago,” Cas begins during a lull in the plot, “While we were negotiating the contract, that we could talk about some of my limits later.”

Dean’s instantly at attention, his fingers stilling in Cas' hair until the boy nudges his head back slightly. He resumes the motion but stays alert, the movie all but forgotten. “I did say that. Why are you bringing it up?” Cas shrugs, faux-casual as he leans his head against Dean’s thigh and looks up at him with wide eyes.

“I was thinking about what you said. About pain play.” Cas sounds hesitant, his eyes flicking away from Dean’s as he fidgets. Dean’s fingers tighten in his hair and Cas' gaze returns. “I want to try it.”

“Okay,” Dean replies. His mind is abuzz with the words, his thought going in several different directions at once. “Do you want me to get out our contract?”

Cas blushes, burying his face deeper into Dean’s thigh. Dean tugs his hair, hard enough that Cas follows the movement until he’s looking Dean in the eye again.

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean’s been very careful not to overstep Castiel’s boundaries in the last weeks, and it’s been great. Cas hasn’t said anything about being unhappy with their current terms until now, and Dean trusts him to speak up if he gets uncomfortable with something.

“I think,” Cas says, his eyes wide but his voice unwavering. “I think I want to try it first. So I can know if I want to do it again.”

“So after the scene, we can go over what you liked and didn’t like and modify it accordingly?” Dean confirms. Cas nods, settling back against Dean’s leg and glancing back at the TV. “We can talk about specifics later, all right?”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, tilting his head into Dean’s palm as he starts scratching his nails along Cas' scalp.

“No problem.”

_Later_ turns out to be that night as they sit down for dinner. Castiel is still wearing one of Dean’s old T-shirts even though it’s several sizes to large for his wiry frame. Dinner is nothing fancy, just pasta with a sauce heated up on the stove, but Cas still beams at Dean like it’s a five course meal as they sit down on the couch, the TV playing reruns of old sitcoms.

“You said you wanted to try pain play,” Dean says as Cas nestles into his chest, tucking his head under Dean’s chin. Cas nods, his hair tickling Dean’s neck. “What did you have in mind?”

“No whips,” Castiel says firmly. “No floggers. I was thinking more along the lines of something really intense and personal instead of impact.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. He can work with this, with what Cas is offering. He’s still proud that Cas had gotten up the courage to ask for what he wants. “How do you feel about more lasting marks?”

“Anything that I can cover with a scarf or my normal clothes is fine. They can last a little longer than they usually would,” Castiel concedes. He seems to have been thinking about this for a while. Dean takes a bite of pasta and rubs Cas' arm gently. It’s more out of habit than anything now, to always have a hand on Castiel, whether Dean’s stroking his hair, or his arm, or just passing by him on the way to another room.

“Okay. So you don’t want a punishment scene or anything overly violent, but you still want the pain aspect,” he confirms.

“If it’s too hard for you to work with, we can—” Cas begins.

“Don’t compromise your limits because you think this might be difficult for me, Cas,” Dean warns. “I have a few ideas, I was just making sure that’s what you want.”

“Oh. Okay. Can we do the scene sometime next week, though? I have an exam on Friday and I want to study for most of the week.” Castiel nuzzles further into Dean’s embrace, the TV playing a laugh track as he does.

“No problem. If you think of anything else during the week, just let me know so I can plan for it. Are you okay with being surprised?” Cas pauses for a moment, considering.

“I think so. If you could tell me a few things the day before, though, that would be nice. You don’t have to give the scene away, but you could tell me if you’re going to tie me up, or something.”

“Of course. Hey, I’m glad you asked me about this, Cas. I’m proud of you.” Even from the awkward angle, Dean can still see the blush spreading across Cas' cheeks.

“It’s not like I did anything.” he says, but Dean leans over, planting a kiss on Castiel’s unsuspecting lips that’s worth the strain in his neck.

“Sometimes it’s hard to talk about the things you want,” he says. Cas averts his eyes, but he smiles and turns his face into Dean’s chest while Dean leans back against the couch cushions.

As the sitcom keeps playing, Dean’s mind wanders. He has several ideas about how to make this good for Cas, and each requires careful consideration.

Castiel is on his back, wrists chained to the headboard and a blindfold securely fastened over his eyes. He’s so hard it hurts, his cock straining angrily against his abdomen between his splayed legs. Nothing exists anymore, nothing feels real except the scratch of sheets against his back. They were soft once, he thinks, but Cas has been brought to the edge and then pulled abruptly back so many times that even the simple contact chafes against his sensitized skin. He’s been like this for hours, he thinks, his nerves flayed open until he lost track of everything that wasn’t Dean’s hands on him.

For a moment, Dean sits back, and Castiel just breathes, grateful beyond belief for this short respite. He sags down into the bed, even though any movement whatsoever makes him hiss in discomfort. Still, he tries to let himself relax into the sheets, his abused muscles screaming in protest as they slowly unlock.

“You’ve been so good for me,” Dean’s voice soothes from somewhere above him. Cas feels the mattress shift beside him as a new weight is added to it. Dean’s fingers barely graze his cheeks, and Castiel lets out a small but involuntary flinch at the touch. He’s so sensitive and so strung out that he can barely help it, even as he wants to strain up into Dean’s retreating touch and reassure him that he didn’t mean it, that he’s not scared of him. Dean doesn’t give him the chance to. “Can you do it one more time for me?”

Castiel could say no. He could call out “Kashmir” and this would all be over; Dean would unchain him with gentle hands, remove the blindfold and kiss his eyelids and tell Cas that it’s okay, that he did so well. Castiel wants to say no. He wants this to be over, he wants to stop hurting. But Dean’s voice is so gentle, so reassuring, and he can’t. He can’t deny Dean when he _knows_ he can take more. It will hurt, but it will be worth it. Castiel wants this, no matter how much it hurts him.

He still doesn’t know how long he’s been here, chained to the bed as Dean takes him apart inch by inch, playing the chords of his body with expertise until Castiel screams, his voice and throat raw even now. Every time Cas got close to coming, Dean would press his lips to whatever part of him was nearest and whisper that he wasn’t allowed to come. Cas would scream and shake and plead, but he wouldn’t come. He has long since stopped begging for release, choosing instead to beg for mercy. Once more could kill him, he thinks, could leave him empty and broken, nothing left of him but the imprint of Dean’s fingers on his skin.

Castiel doesn’t say no. Instead, he spreads his aching legs just a little bit wider, and nods slowly, welcoming the comforting, invisible weight of Dean between his thighs. His fingers flutter on the warm metal of his chains, the leather cuffs around his wrists secured with no chance of escape. After a moment Cas lets them go, letting them sag in midair. He doesn’t say no, and so he feels the smile on Dean’s lips as he presses them against Castiel’s own. They’re cracked and bloody from the time Cas spent trying to hold in screams before finally giving up and letting his voice go hoarse with the force of his cries. He squeezes his eyes shut behind his blindfold, long since soaked through with tears, and chokes out a word against Dean’s lips. It hurts, his throat sore, and it comes out as a broken, desperate sob.

“Please,” Castiel says, and Dean’s hands come up to wipe tears off his cheeks. He doesn’t trust himself to say more.

“Good boy,” Dean reassures him, thumbs caressing Castiel’s cheekbones. A wet kiss is pressed to the juncture between his jaw and neck and nothing can stop the cracked whimper that leaves his lips. Dean bites, just a quick nip that blossoms with pain and Cas whimpers again, his cock hard, aching and leaking. More kisses trail down his neck, past the bruises from earlier, until Dean’s teeth latch onto the collar laced around Castiel’s throat. He can feel the strength of the bite Dean presses into the leather, an extra claim where none is needed.

Dean’s hands begin to wander again, bypassing Castiel’s straining cock and moving to frame the insides of his thighs, their weight a warm comfort that helps Cas stay grounded. He’s starting to breathe hard again, panic and anticipation swirling in his stomach, making him sick with nerves. Fingers brush his perineum and Cas bucks into the touch and away from it at the same time. He stops thinking in words again, his world narrowed down to the throbbing ache between his legs and his simultaneous desire for both more and less.

“Don’t come,” Dean says, as if Castiel could have forgotten. His fingers dance along the chain again, the only thing stopping him from floating away from it all. Dean’s mouth returns, too hot against the sweat-chilled skin of Cas' thigh. He feels like he’s going to shake apart into a million tiny pieces right then and there. Castiel wants to scream, thrash, and buck Dean off of him, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Castiel lets Dean trail kisses along his hipbone, crying out when the tips of Dean’s fingers probe at his hole, open and slick from the hours of vibrators and beads and other toys Dean’s been using on him. Two digits slide in easily, gently probing around until they find the too-sensitive nub of Castiel’s prostate. When Dean rubs over it firmly, he screams, the sensation almost entirely pain now. Dean drops a kiss on the leaking tip of Castiel’s erection and he sobs. It’s overwhelming, the amount of sensation he’s experiencing.

“Shh, angel,” Dean whispers. “I’ll get you there.”

With that, Dean dives into Castiel’s body, slipping in a third finger and kissing his way down Cas' aching balls. By the time his tongue joins his fingers, prodding into Cas' sloppy hole, he’s all but lost in his head and the haze of sensation. The pleasure’s not pleasure now that it’s been forced back so many times; it’s outright pain, but it’s the best kind. The kind that’s been twisted on its head until Cas' whole being is on fire with it, burning but not consumed.

After what could be hours or minutes, Dean finally withdraws, leaving Castiel feeling too empty even as the pain ebbs. Dean rubs soothing circles into his hips with one thumb and presses kisses to Cas' rim that would be reverent were they pressed to his lips instead.

Castiel is past the point of begging when Dean’s cock slides into him for the first time that night. Instead he lies limply on the bed, too exhausted to try and scramble away whenever Dean strikes his prostate, opting instead to shudder and gasp out another sob, far past the point of being able to form words. Dean leans down and bites at his neck, trailing soft bites down until he reaches Cas' nipples, tugging them with teeth and pinching at them with his fingers. This makes Cas arch up again, whining in the back of his throat for more and less and nothing at all. He can feel himself slipping as Dean toys with him like a cat batting at a mouse, and still he doesn’t come, can’t come; not without permission.

When Dean reaches down, palming Cas' cock oh so gently, Castiel cries out again. Dean shushes him by sealing their lips together, greedily drinking all of Cas' pained moans and whimpers as he tries desperately not to come.

“Okay,” Dean finally murmurs against his lips, Cas throwing his head back and gasping for air as he fights the urge to buck up into Dean’s hand. “You can come now, angel.”

Castiel wails, his back arching as he finally lets go and comes over his own chest and Dean’s hand, the orgasm that’s ripped out of him more painful than anything. He tugs against the chains and thrashes as the shocks ebb away, and realizes that while he was lost in his haze Dean had come, the familiar wetness bringing him back to reality as Dean draws out of him slowly.

Gentle hands loosen Cas' blindfold, and he clenches his eyes shut as the dull light of the playroom hits his pupils. Dean’s murmuring nonsense at him, soft words about how good he was and how proud Dean is. Castiel tries to curl up and away from Dean’s hands on his arms, everything hurting and sore. Dean makes an upset noise and quickly unfastens the padded cuffs around Castiel’s wrists, kissing each one in turn before letting Cas curl on his side, breathing slowly and shallowly.

“You were so good, Cas, that was perfect. I’m going to get you some water, okay?” Dean’s weight disappears off the bed and Cas huddles into himself that much tighter until Dean returns, bearing a water bottle and a packet of energy chews from the small fridge they keep in the playroom.

“Cas, sweetheart, I need you to sit up for me,” Dean cajoles, his hand light on Castiel’s shoulder. “You were so good, now I need you to do this, okay?”

After a moment of hesitation, Cas turns so Dean can help lift him into a sitting position, even though his muscles scream in protest. Dean whispers praise at him the whole time, but Castiel feels hollow, like he doesn’t understand the words even though he’s hearing them clearly.

Dean tips water into Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel swallows. Dean places an energy cube on Cas' tongue and he chews. Every inch of him is sore, but he does as Dean asks, and when Dean is satisfied he lets himself be picked up and carried into their bedroom, his collar left behind on the playroom bed.

_You asked for this_ , Castiel reminds himself as Dean wipes him down with a cool cloth, cleaning his skin of come and lube and sweat. _You liked it_. And he did. But he wasn’t prepared for this, the absence of emotion he feels. It’s like he exhausted his emotional capacity for the day, maybe even the rest of the weekend. It’s only Saturday, though, so at least he can sleep in tomorrow. Cas talks to himself like this inside his head while Dean slips under the covers, pulling Cas tight into his chest.

“Are you okay? Talk to me, Cas,” Dean pleads after he flicks off the light. “Please.”

“I’m tired,” Castiel responds after a moment of hesitation.

“But you’ll be okay for the rest of the night?”

“I think so,” he says quietly. Dean settles deeper into the bed, tracing abstract patterns into Castiel’s skin with one finger. Oddly enough, the movement soothes him, and Cas soon finds himself drifting off to sleep. The world can wait until tomorrow.

Dean wakes up with Castiel nestled in his arms, the soft strands of his hair tickling Dean’s neck. Cas' breaths are deep and even and Dean lets their breathing sync up, his heart beating against Cas' shoulder blades. He likes to think that their heartbeats are syncing too, beating in time with each other.

He can’t see the clock, so he doesn’t know how long he stays like that, Castiel pressed against him, bare legs tangled together, but it feels like hours. Dean watches Cas, listens to his deep, even breaths, and his thumb smooths over the dip of one of Castiel’s hipbones. Thin light trickles in through the curtains and everything seems suspended in time for a few perfect moments, and Dean thinks to himself that he’s _happy_. He’s happy with Castiel next to him, tucked into the curve of his body like he belongs there.

When Castiel finally stirs, just a gentle movement that ends with him pressed even closer to Dean than he already is, Dean drops a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, rubbing soothing circles into Cas' hip as the boy murmurs something unintelligible into his pillow.

“Morning,” he murmurs softly, and Castiel stills. His breathing speeds up slightly, and Dean can feel his heart start to thud in his chest. With a sharp twist in his gut, Dean hopes that the reaction isn’t fear.

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice laced with barely restrained panic. He starts to move, to get up, and Dean follows him, the blankets slipping off of their bodies and pooling in their laps. Castiel turns to face him, his eyes wide and shockingly blue, and Dean grabs his wrists loosely.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Cas,” he pleads, sleep slowing his words and blurring his vision. Dean blinks once, hard, and watches as Cas ducks his head, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Please?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Castiel gasps, eyes shining as he looks up at Dean again. “I don’t know, I don’t know why I’m—”

Dean cuts him off by pulling him close, enveloping Cas in a tight embrace. Cas is still for a moment, tense, but then he relaxes into the hug, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Cas promises again, his voice muffled by Dean’s T-shirt.

“Don’t apologize,” Dean tells him. “You’re okay. This happens. I’ll take care of you, Cas. You’re gonna be fine.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but he does wrap his arms around Dean in return, holding him tightly. They stay there for a long while, Dean sitting cross-legged in his boxers and Castiel practically in his lap, still naked from the night before.

“I’m so proud of you,” Dean murmurs into the soft wisps of hair behind Cas' ear. Castiel’s grip relaxes and he leans back slightly, sitting so that their faces are inches apart. He looks less panicked now, and his eyes aren’t full of tears anymore. Cas still looks somewhat shaken though, so Dean leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips, his hands resting lightly on his waist. Cas grips his shoulders, but his lips quirk up into a small smile when Dean kisses the tip of his nose.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, voice rougher than normal.

“You’re welcome,” Dean replies. “Do you want breakfast?”

“You don’t have to,” Cas starts to say, but he’s interrupted by his stomach, which seems to disagree. Dean puffs out a laugh against Castiel’s lips and pushes gently, trying to get him off. Cas follows reluctantly, leaning in for another kiss before he clambers off Dean’s lap with a hiss.

“Sore?” Dean asks. His hands roam down the strong plane of Cas' back, stopping at his hips. Castiel shrugs and looks away. “Stay here, okay? I’ll bring you breakfast.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He looks so beautiful like this, all long and lean and dark against the white of Dean’s sheets. Dean never wants to let him go.

“No problem,” he replies. “If you need me in here, just call me.” Cas nods unconvincingly. Dean lifts his chin with his fingers, making Cas look up at him.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Dean smiles and kisses Cas' forehead, noticing how Castiel leans into the touch and how his eyes have fluttered closed by the time Dean pulls away. He smiles fondly before turning and heading into the kitchen, making sure to leave the door propped open as he does.

Dean clatters around in the kitchen for a bit, cracking eggs into a pan with some cheese, ham, bell peppers, and onions; making Cas a scramble just the way he likes it. Half of his attention is on the pan, and the other half is focused on the open door of their bedroom. Cas doesn’t call out for him as he drops bread in the toaster, or when Dean pours a mug of coffee for himself and a mug of tea for Cas, stirring in what he’s pretty sure is the right amount of sugar.

When Dean carries in their breakfast on a tray, he finds Cas sprawled facedown on the bed, still naked. As usual, he can’t stop himself from admiring the view; Castiel’s legs are slightly parted and his back is arched, and Dean stands in the doorway just looking and silently congratulating himself before Cas rolls over, a small smile on his face.

“Are you gonna feed me or just stand there all day?” Dean grins and moves forward with the tray.

“I don’t know, it’s a pretty nice view,” He teases, but relents when Cas shoots a longing look at the tray in his hands. Dean settles himself on the bed next to Cas and props the tray up on their laps, watching as Cas tucks into his scramble.

“Well, that was clearly awful,” he comments three minutes later when Castiel is busy wiping the plate clean with his toast. Cas scowls at him, but leans into Dean’s side and takes a sip of his tea.

“It was delicious, Dean,” he corrects. Dean grins and nudges him gently, careful not to make him spill his tea, and Cas smiles back. When he does, something loosens in Dean’s chest, the part of him that remembers that they had a scene last night, an incredibly intense scene for Cas. That thought makes his smile dim a little, and Cas notices, his brow creasing slightly. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean promises quickly. “It’s just...how are you feeling?”

Cas glances away in uncertainty, his grip on the mug in his hands shifting. He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“Cas,” Dean sighs, setting his coffee on the nightstand and taking one of Cas' hands in his. “I need you to talk to me. Last night was as intense as we’ve ever gotten and I need to know how you feel about that.”

“I liked it,” Castiel finally whispers, after a substantial pause. A blush spreads across his cheeks and he sets aside his tea and buries his head in his hands. Dean takes his wrists gently, not trying to pull his hands away, but still offering support. Cas inhales, a long shuddering gasp that suggests that he’s holding himself together as best he can. “You hurt me, and I liked it.”

“And that’s okay,” Dean reassures him. “You were supposed to like it, remember?”

“I—I guess,” Castiel admits after a pause. He peeks up at Dean through his fingers and eventually drops his hands, though his head is still bowed. Dean’s grip on his wrists stays, something to ground them both.

“Was there anything you _didn’t_ like?” He asks gently. Cas reaches for a blanket to cover his lap, wrapping it around his shoulders and huddling into it like he’s freezing.

“Not being able to see you was scary,” Cas says, his voice soft. His fingers reach out, gripping Dean’s wrists in turn. “And when you weren’t touching me, I got worried that you were going to leave me there.”

“Okay,” Dean replies. “I get that. I’m sorry, I should have checked in when I wasn’t touching you directly—I will next time, I promise. Is there anything else you want me to know?”

Cas shakes his head, hesitating for a moment before clambering into Dean’s lap, pulling the blanket over his shoulders and tight around the both of them. He buries his face into Dean’s neck, whimpering when Dean strokes a comforting line down his spine.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you, Cas, I’ve got you.” Dean murmurs praise and reassurance into Castiel’s hair, stroking his back and occasionally pressing kisses to the side of his head until Cas seems to have calmed down. He stays there, though, wrapped around Dean’s torso like a frightened octopus, and Dean is content to stay there, Cas' breath warming his neck as he breathes.

“Thank you,” Castiel whispers, his arms still tight around Dean’s chest.

“I’m proud of you, Cas,” he replies. “Do you have work today?”

“I, um,” Cas thinks for a moment before starting to answer again. “I have take Anna to a friend’s house later tonight, but Gabriel can probably do that.”

A quick glance at the clock tells Dean that it’s just after ten. “If you want to get off me, I can go run you a bath. No offense, angel, but you kind of smell.”

Cas laughs a little and swats at Dean’s arm, but he slowly untangles his limbs from around Dean’s body. He climbs off the bed, leaving Cas wrapped up in his blanket like a burrito, and when he turns back at the doorway, Castiel is staring back at him with huge, sad eyes.

“You want me to put in some of that bubble shit,” Dean accuses. He’s proven correct when Cas' poker face splinters, a smile replacing the pout. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”

“Thanks!” Cas calls out as he enters the bathroom and starts the water, waiting for the tub to fill up as he adds in the bubble bath. It was a gift from Charlie a few years ago, back when they didn’t know each other very well and had stuck with incredibly generic, boring Christmas gifts. Cas discovered it about a week after moving in, and he’d disappeared into the bathroom that night and reemerged an hour later smelling strongly of peppermint.

By the time the bathtub is full enough, Cas has dragged himself into the bathroom, blanket burrito and all. Dean smiles at him fondly and tries to take the blanket from him, his smile broadening when Cas scowls.

“It’s cold,” Castiel grumbles.

“The water’s warm, I promise,” Dean replies, trying to stop himself from laughing. Cas glares at him suspiciously, but eventually sheds the blanket and slips into the water, settling back with a sigh as he’s enveloped by bubbles that smell like Christmas.

Dean washes his hair for him, Cas' head propped up against the back of the tub, and when he’s done he looks down to see Cas smiling dopily up at him, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead. Dean can’t help himself—he leans over and plants a big one right on Cas' lips, Spider Man style. It’s not the best kiss ever; both of them are smiling too much for it to last, but it’s the best kiss Dean’s had in years. He’s happy, here with Cas, doing normal, domestic shit with him. It more than he would have thought himself capable of ten years ago, and he feels excessively proud of himself for making it this far.

Of course, Cas chooses that moment to reach up out of the water and run his wet, wrinkled fingers along Dean’s jaw. From the laugh that bursts from Cas' lips, the face he makes must be pretty ridiculous.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but he tolerates it when Cas reaches up with both hands to cup his face, water spilling onto his shirt and boxers.

“I love you,” Cas says, and Dean’s heart stops beating. “You—you don’t have to say it back or anything, but I thought you should know.”

Dean wants to say something, to tell Cas how much he cares, how much he loves him, but everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat. Cas doesn’t look disappointed when he pulls his hands away, but he does slip through the water and pull the plug at the bottom of the bathtub, letting the bubbles wash down the drain.

“Cas—” He finally manages to say. He pauses when Castiel looks up at him, the bright blue of his eyes as compelling as always. “Me too.”

The smile Cas gives him is worth the ache in his chest.

  


The rest of the day is lazy and slow; Dean takes a few calls for work, disappearing into his office for ten or fifteen minutes at a time while Castiel finishes drafting an essay. Most of his classes this semester are challenging, and midterms are quickly approaching, so he keeps his distance when Dean returns from his calls, only relenting once Dean picks up a book and sits near him on the couch.

After his last call, Dean sits back down on the couch and turns, motioning for Cas to pick up his laptop and draping his legs over Castiel’s lap. He puts his computer back down, balancing it on Dean’s shins, and returns to his analyzation of Van Gogh.

“That was Michael,” Dean says after a minute. “He works at Purgatory, helps with the financials.”

“That’s nice,” Castiel mumbles, flipping a page of the book next to him and scowling at what he finds. Briefly, he allows himself to wonder what it is Dean even does all day; he’s clearly rather wealthy. What does being the owner of a club entail? Does it really pay that well? He sets aside his concerns, though, at the seriousness of Dean’s expression.

“He wants me to come over for dinner on Tuesday, and he extended the invitation to you.”

“Okay,” Cas replies absentmindedly. He’s getting a little irritated; this paper is due in a week and he’s almost done. He could probably finish his first draft today, if Dean would stop _interrupting_ him. Dean sighs.

“Cas, Michael keeps a 24/7 dynamic in his house.” This makes Cas look up, and Dean makes sure he has his full attention before continuing. “Whenever I go to his house with a sub, we keep that dynamic too. You’re not required to do it of course, if it makes you uncomfortable, but it’s what we’ve done in the past.”

This isn’t something he’s considered before. Castiel has never done anything with Dean outside of their apartment, except at Purgatory, and that was different. Cas had been fully clothed, his collar around his throat, and he knew that if anyone had even looked at him wrong, Dean would have been there.

“Would I be expected to...um,” he trails off, face burning. Dean looks at him in confusion before understanding clears his face, and he’s quick to shake his head.

“No! No, of course not. You wouldn’t have to be naked, and you won’t be expected to do anything sexual while we’re there unless you’re comfortable with that.” Castiel relaxes back into the couch, glancing back down at his laptop while he considers it.

“Does Michael have a submissive?”

“Two, actually,” Dean says. “He’s been with them for a couple of years. They’re around your age, actually.”

“So you share tastes,” Cas says drily. Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Sort of. I mean, I don’t take subs under twenty-one because of my personal experience, but Michael’s perfectly content to take anyone willing over eighteen.” The way Dean says _personal experience_ makes Castiel think that it’s not something he wants to talk about currently, so he lets that go.

“I’ll do it,” he says. Dean’s face lights up.

“Really?”

“Really.” Dean stands up, and Castiel barely has enough warning so that he can grab his laptop before it falls.

“What are you _doing_?” He asks after Dean kisses him, then starts walking towards the kitchen.

“I’m making us lunch,” Dean replies. True to his word, he starts to pull out bread and various sandwich condiments from the fridge and cupboards, placing them in a heap on the counter.

“Did you know that you show affection through food?” Cas remarks, remembering each of the times Dean’s cooked for him and fed him. And the time with Charlie and Jo, where Dean had forced their plates onto them almost grumpily, but watched them attentively to make sure they were doing all right.

Dean grumbles from the kitchen, but he continues making the sandwiches. When they’re done, and set out on the table with a glass of lemonade for Cas and water for Dean, Castiel closes his laptop and bookmarks his page in the textbook. His essay can wait.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dean’s finishing up his paperwork when he hears the door open and Cas' footsteps coming towards the office. He glances at the clock and frowns—Cas is late. Not by much, of course, but they have plans for tonight. Swiveling in his chair, he waits as Cas' footsteps come to a halt in front of the closed office door.

The door opens, like Dean expected, and Cas waits in the doorway obediently. He know’s he’s not allowed in without permission, and as Dean reaches for Cas' collar, which has been on the desk next to him for most of the afternoon, he looks down at the floor and inclines his head.

Cas, perceptive as he is, immediately drops to his knees, looking at Dean with wide eyes and waiting for instruction.

“Come here,” Dean commands. Pitching forward onto all fours, Castiel makes his way across the room, his head bowed and his hips swaying deliberately. He comes to a stop between Dean’s legs, settling back onto his heels and looking up at Dean, eyes huge and trusting. With a small smile and a quick stroke through his hair, Dean buckles the collar around Cas' neck, tugging it slightly and raising his eyebrows.

“Good?” He asks, letting a pleased smile slip across his face when Cas nods. Dean spins his chair around again, facing his desk, and starts to slowly put his work away, ignoring Cas the whole time. It’s only when his desk is clean and everything is neater than it’s probably ever been that he turns back around, looking at Castiel, who’s barely moved from his original position.

“Good boy,” Dean praises, and then reaches into a drawer and feels around, pulling out the object and holding it in Cas' direct line of vision, watching his pupils blow wide as he takes it in. The leash is half chain, half supple leather, and the metal links clink when Dean holds it in the air. Castiel is practically salivating, his body straining towards it ever so slightly. Dean smirks and grabs the end, clipping it gently to the ring on Cas' collar.

“Up,” he says, tugging Cas to his feet by the leash. The feeling of Cas moving as instructed, so willing and obedient, has a flare of heat shooting through Dean’s groin. He tugs Castiel forward, onto his lap and positions him so that he’s straddling Dean on the chair, their hips pressed together and faces inches apart. Dean grips Cas' hips with both hands, still keeping his hold on the leash and rolls his hips up lazily.

The look on Cas' face is breathtaking. He’s completely in his headspace now, giving control entirely to Dean. It sends a rush of pride through, him, that Cas trusts him this much, that he’s willing to let Dean have this much power. His lips are chapped and hanging open slightly, his eyes glazed over with lust and submission. To Dean, he’s never been more beautiful, sitting fully clothed in his lap.

He keeps on rutting up into Cas for a while, sometimes tugging Cas' head down so he can kiss him, and when he grows bored Dean nudges Castiel off his lap gently. Cas gets right back on his hands and knees, like the good boy he is, and Dean has to adjust himself in his pants before standing up.

The walk to the playroom is short, but as Dean watches the sway of Cas' ass in his jeans as he crawls on the floor, tugging occasionally at the leash, he’s glad for the restricting material of his pants against his cock. Dean starts to unclothe before he even shuts the door behind him, stripping out of his shirt and shoes, bidding Castiel to do the same.

Once Cas is fully naked, Dean pulls him harshly over to the bed, motioning that he should get up onto it. They’ve talked about this scene, and Castiel knows what is expected of him, but Dean still can’t wait to take him apart.

“Don’t come,” he warns, tightening his grip on the leash as Castiel nods frantically. And then he leans over, licking a long, wet stripe up the underside of Cas' cock.

Dean had learned long ago that Cas can barely keep it together under the gentle pressure of Dean’s mouth, and he uses that knowledge to his full advantage. First he licks it, slowly, relishing the little, pleasure-addled noises that Cas can’t stand to keep inside himself. Little by little, Cas come undone as Dean tongues his slit, tasting the salty precome beading at the tip of his cock, and then in one smooth motion, he takes Castiel into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Castiel swears, his hands flying down to tangle in Dean’s hair. Immediately, Dean pulls off, looking up at him sternly.

“If you can’t control yourself, I’ll stop,” he warns. Castiel shrinks back, chastised.

“Sorry, sir,” he murmurs, reaching up and gripping the bars of the headboard so tightly his knuckles turn white. Dean doesn’t reply, just grabs his hips and lowers his head again, taking Cas' cock into his mouth once again.

This time, Cas doesn’t move, other than a single, quickly suppressed buck of his hips. Dean takes that as his cue to go to town, bobbing his head up and down as Cas bites down on gasps and whimpers.

Castiel lasts longer than Dean expects. He pulls out all the stops, flicking his tongue around the head of Cas' cock and using his hand on what isn’t in his mouth. He toys with Cas' balls but studiously avoids his hole, and as a very last resort, he pulls off, takes a deep breath, and then starts sinking down on Cas' dick again.

This time, he doesn’t stop when Cas hits the back of his throat, and when Dean pushes back his gag reflex to take Cas into his throat, Castiel lets out a gorgeous strangled noise, full of desire and panic. And then he comes. Straight down Dean’s throat.

Dean holds him while he writhes, breathing steadily through his nose and swallowing dutifully until Cas is done, collapsing back against the bed with a broken sob.

When he’s once again standing in front of the bed, pants almost painfully tented and arms crossed against his bare chest, Dean doesn’t say anything. He just looks down at Castiel, disappointed, and waits.

“I’m sorry—” Cas starts, voice thick, but Dean cuts him off.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” He asks harshly. Cas hesitates, then shakes his head, pushing himself up into a cross-legged position and bowing his head. “Did I give you permission to _come_?”

Cas shakes his head again, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

“You do realize I have to punish you?” Dean says, not so much a question as an order. Castiel nods this time, and Dean sees the tear on his cheek right before it drips onto the sheets. Dean sits on the bed a foot or so away, leaning back on his elbows. “Over my lap.”

Cas pushes himself up and crawls over, draping himself over Dean’s lap and tilting his hips up slightly. Dean’s erection grinds through cloth against Cas' hip, and Dean reaches down to palm at the pale flesh of Castiel’s ass.

“Why do I need to punish you, Castiel?” He asks firmly. Cas wriggles a little, his soft cock brushing against Dean’s thigh.

“Because I came without permission, sir.” Cas' voice trembles a little bit, but he doesn’t make a move to defend himself when Dean’s hand comes down hard on his ass with a loud smack. Castiel cries out sharply and Dean’s hand smooths over the reddening flesh, suddenly gentle.

“And why did you come without permission?” Castiel squirms a little and makes a confused noise, straining to look back at Dean. Dean smiles sharply at him and brings his hand down again, then again in rapid succession. Each time Cas yelps he adds another smack, until all that’s left is small whimpers and shuddering gasps. Cas' whole body trembles against him, his ass bright red, and dean reaches over to smooth a hand through his sweaty hair.

“You came without permission because you’re a slut, Cas,” he says with the imitation of kindness. Castiel sobs wetly into the mattress, the back of his neck flushing a red to match his backside. “You’re just a whore who can’t control himself, aren’t you?”

When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean spanks him again, his palm red and sore. Cas tries to squirm away but Dean’s holding him too tightly. “I asked you a question, slut.”

“Yes, sir!” Castiel gasps thickly when Dean scratches his nails down the forming welts on his ass.

“Yes, what?” He asks, not ceasing his movements and relishing the pained gasps and whimpers coming from the boy below him.

“Yes, I’m a whore, sir,” Cas finally relents, his voice shaking as hard as the rest of him and half muted by the bed. “I’m just a worthless slut.”

Dean frowns and pauses his hands, moving one up to rest again in Cas' hair. “I never said you were worthless,” he says softly. Castiel doesn’t give any indication that he heard him, lying boneless over Dean’s lap and breathing heavily into the bed. It’s an abrupt mood change, and Dean has to shake himself to understand that something is _wrong._

“Hey,” Dean murmurs. He slides out from under Castiel and rolls him over, gripping his face with both hands and waiting until Castiel’s eyes flutter open blearily. “You’re not worthless, Cas.”

“Sorry,” Castiel replies, his voice a whisper. His eyes, bright and teary, look up at Dean, who leans down and kisses his forehead gently.

“Come on, let’s fix you up.” As gently as he can, Dean gathers Cas up in his arms and stumbles out of the playroom. Cas' eyes stay open and fixed on him the whole trips back to the bedroom, where Dean gently deposits him on the bed and then goes to run a bath.

Cas is on his front, legs splayed slightly apart when Dean comes back into the room. He looks away from Dean, but takes the offered hand and follows him into the bathroom carefully. Dean strips off his jeans and underwear, his cock gone soft at the lack of stimulation, and pulls Castiel into the water after him, nestling them back to chest.

“You’re not worthless,” he repeats. “I don’t know why you would think that, but you’re not.”

“Thanks,” Castiel replies quietly. It’s not acquiescence, and Dean leans forward slightly to rest his chin on Cas' shoulder, the leather of the collar Cas is still wearing brushing against his cheek.

“Talk to me, Cas.” Castiel pauses for a moment.

“I don’t know why I said it,” he admits quietly. “I just...I liked what you said, but I felt so bad about breaking the rules, and I know you had plans for tonight, and I messed them up, and—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, kissing his neck again. “I had plans, that’s true. But don’t feel bad for screwing up. We all do, sometimes. You can’t be perfect all the time, no matter how much you want to.”

“I wanted to be good for you,” Cas says, his voice still soft.

“I know.” Dean gentles his tone, his hands sliding up and down Cas' torso through the water.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he repeats. They sit there until Dean turns the water off, the tub threatening to overflow, and then he washes Castiel’s hair and his own and scrubs them down until they’re clean, making sure to go gently across the red skin of Castiel’s ass. Cas steps out first, wrapping himself in the softest towel Dean owns and drying himself off thoroughly.

“Do you want me to order pizza?” Dean calls as Cas retreats to the bedroom. He almost laughs when he follows to see Cas wriggling into one of Dean’s old, huge sweatshirts and a pair of flannel pants. His hair is sticking up every which way, still mostly wet, and Dean can’t resist crossing the room and planting a kiss on his lips. Cas smiles and kisses back, melting into him a little bit.

“You like it when I wear your clothes,” Cas accuses. Dean smirks and holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Do you want me to order pizza or not?” Cas shoves his hands in the hoodie’s pockets and nods vigorously.

“Onions and pepperoni. No sausage,” he orders, glaring at Dean, who laughs a little bit and, once he’s wearing pants, heads into the kitchen to grab his phone. When he returns after ordering, he finds Cas wrapped up like a burrito in all of their blankets, duvet included.

“Do you want to come out to the living room?” Dean asks, leaning against the doorframe. Cas looks at him, only his eyes and his tufts of drying hair sticking out from beneath the covers. After a long moment Cas starts to move, dragging the covers with him until he’s dragging half their bed with him onto the couch. Dean watches, amused, and before Cas can fully settle into the couch, Dean joins him. He slips under the blankets, nestling into Cas and grabbing the TV remote.

“I love you,” Dean says, before he can regret it. Cas stills next to him, his hand brushing across Dean’s thigh softly. “I just—I thought you knew, but. I do.”

“I knew, Dean,” Cas replies. “I _know_.” The leather of his collar still sits heavy around his throat, covered by the hoodie. Dean reaches up to brush at the material, and Cas leans into him, his body a welcome weight. “I love you too.”

Eventually, Dean will have to get up to retrieve the pizza, but for now he turns the TV on to Game of Thrones and kisses Cas, and everything is still and peaceful and wonderful.

Dean’s getting tired of being woken up by phone calls. He reaches across Cas, who’s splayed out across over half of the bed, spread-eagled and mostly on top of Dean, and grabs his phone from the nightstand.

“Hello?” He grumbles, trying to disentangle the rest of his body and winching when Cas makes a displeased noise and clings onto his other arm even tighter.

“Hey,” Sam says awkwardly from the other end of the line. Dean stops fighting for control of his arm and stares at nothing in particular, confused. Cas makes another noise, pleased this time, and squirms down into the mattress.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asks, wincing a little even as the words leave his mouth. It’s probably not the best way to start their first conversation in four months, but Dean doesn’t even know what time it is and he’s more than a little angry to hear Sam’s voice.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Sam says, and it’s the first apology Dean’s heard from him in years. “It’s just, I couldn’t sleep and I know I was a jerk the last time we talked. But this is really important to me and I wanted to call you as soon as possible. I understand if you’re angry at me, but—”

“Sam,” Dean cuts him off. He’s got a tendency to ramble sometimes, when he’s nervous, and Dean doesn’t have a hard time believing that Sam couldn’t sleep. “What is it?”

“I asked Jess to marry me,” Sam says, all in one breath. “And she knows that we were fighting and she told me that I should call you. So. I’m calling.”

“That’s great, Sammy.” He sounds tired to his own ears, and sure Dean’s excited but one sentence isn’t going to dissolve months of resentment. “Look, it’s fuckin’ early, so why don’t you call me back and—”

“Dean?” Cas speaks suddenly, voice muffled into the pillow. He shifts slightly onto his back, looking up at Dean with a bewildered and somewhat betrayed expression. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”

“Go back to sleep, Cas,” Dean replies as softly as he can. Seizing the opportunity, he reclaims his arm from Cas' grip and is only mildly surprised when Cas burrows down and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, tucking his face into the slight pudge at Dean’s belly. Dean smiles affectionately and strokes a hand through Cas' hair and returns his attention to the phone.

“Who was that?” Sam asks, his voice noticeably quieter.

“Like I said, Sam, let me call you back. It’s been five months.” Cas makes a rumbling noise in the back of his throat. Dean scratches his fingers along his scalp and hope it appeases him.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Bye, Dean.” Sam sounds unsure of himself now, and when Dean hangs up he feels a little bad. Sam has his own issues, and maybe they should have talked it out before now. But then again, he never seemed to take Dean’s own life and opinions into account. Dean doesn’t feel bad enough to want to take his half of the the conversation back.

“Come on, Cas,” he murmurs, tossing the phone onto the mattress next to him and tugging Cas up to press a quick kiss to his lips. Cas sighs in contentment, not a morning person on the best of days, and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist.

“Tell me ‘bout that in the morning,” he slurs, eyes staying resolutely shut. Dean laughs a little bit and tugs the fallen blanket over the two of them.

“Promise,” he says, settling back into the mattress and closing his eyes once again. Things will look better in the morning, probably.

Things do not look better in the morning. Cas flat out refuses to get out of bed until Dean brings him a mug of hot coffee, and even then he glares at him from over the rim of the mug as he takes long, deep gulps. Dean knows that Cas takes a while to wake up, and it’s adorable, but today it grates on his nerves a little bit. After the coffee, Castiel seems to sense this and he gently cajoles Dean into the shower with the promise of a blowjob.

It’s not a bad deal. Cas slips into the shower just as Dean’s lathering up his hair, sinking down onto his knees and gripping Dean’s thighs to hold himself steady.

“You don’t have to,” Dean assures him, remembering last night clearly. He feels a little bad for the tile that has to be uncomfortable on Cas' knees, and the dull red skin of his ass, but when Castiel smiles up at him and licks a long, wet stripe up Dean’s rapidly hardening cock, he can’t exactly complain. He lets a hand drop into Cas' hair as he takes Dean deeper into his mouth, and Dean takes the opportunity to thank whoever invented shower sex, because the sight of Cas dripping wet and trying his best to deepthroat him all while working his own cock is enough to have Dean coming in minutes.

Of course, the rest of the morning isn’t nearly as nice. Cas is reclining on the couch, textbook held above him as he reads, when Dean tosses down the newspaper and sighs heavily.

“My brother called this morning,” he says. Cas fumbles and almost drops his textbook, looking over at Dean in surprise.

“Your _brother_?”

“No need to sound so surprised,” he replies, a little bitterly. Cas' face softens and he puts his book down, patting the space next to him gently. Dean smiles and complies, Cas twisting around to lay his head in Dean’s lap. They sit there in silence while Dean tries to collect his thoughts, wondering where to begin.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Cas says softly.

“I know. I just don’t really know where to start.” Cas smiles up at him and Dean strokes his hair, playing with the soft strands while he thinks.

“Sam and I were really close, once. Mom died in a fire when we were little, and our dad sort of fell apart. He never had a steady job, so we moved around once every few months. I grew up in motel rooms, trying to raise Sammy on my own. When he got older, he was always picking fights with our dad, and I guess he was mad that I never stood up for him. Sam ran off to Stanford on a full scholarship the day after he graduated, and we’ve only talked a few times since then. The last time was when my dad died, about four months ago. He acted like—like he was glad or something, and I just hung up. Dad wasn’t the nicest of guys, but he didn’t deserve that.

“That’s how I got Purgatory, you know? Dad was never home, so I had to do anything I could to keep Sam fed, and I ran into Cain. We stayed in this city for almost six months, and he paid me enough that I could keep me and Sam set up in a shitty motel, as long as I did what he wanted. We left and never looked back, after that, but I got a call nearly ten years ago saying that Cain had died, and left me in his will.”

Cas stares up at him with wide eyes, sympathy building in the crease of his brow. Dean shakes his head and laughs a little, trying to clear the sudden lump in his throat.

“Why did he call?” Cas asks. He laces his fingers through Dean’s and plays with his hand idly, his gaze steady.

“He’s getting married,” Dean replies quietly. “And his fiancée wants me to be at the wedding, so she’s forcing him to try and make up with me.”

“Maybe not,” Castiel says. “Maybe he just feels bad.”

Dean squeezes his hand. “Maybe,” he replies.

“I don’t know much about your past,” Cas muses, “but I’m sure that nothing you did would cause him to truly hate you. Perhaps you just have differing opinions and would both rather fight than talk it out.”

Dean laughs, for real this time. Cas looks playfully offended and he reaches up with his free hand to poke at Dean’s stomach. “What? I’m being serious.”

“I know, I know. It’s just, you’re more mature than the both of us combined, probably.” Cas grins up at him and tightens his hold on Dean’s hand, teasing and yet somber.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” he promises earnestly. Dean smiles, genuine and grateful

“I know.”

Cas is nervous. There’s no way around it. He’s standing in front of Dean’s mirror staring at himself and trying not to throw up from the butterflies doing cartwheels in the pit of his stomach.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean reassures him. They’re standing close together, Cas' back to Dean’s chest, and Dean can easily lean down to kiss Castiel’s neck. “It’s just dinner, Cas.”

Except it’s not, really. Because Cas is wearing nothing except a pair of slim black jeans and his collar, sandals waiting by the door to be worn for the brief walks to and from the car, and then to be discarded at the door. His trench coat is slung over the chair on the other side of the bedroom, but that too will come off once they’re in Michael’s house, leaving him in nothing but the jeans and the gray shirt Dean had laid out for him earlier.

“I’m not sure what to expect,” he admits quietly. Dean hums, thoughtful, before kissing his neck again, hands trailing up Cas' bare sides.

“Well, it’ll be a bit more formal than what we did with Charlie,” he says. “Michael and I will probably have some beer before dinner, talk a bit, and then we’ll get down to business. It won’t take too long, I promise.”

“Yes, but what am I supposed to do?” Cas asks, sounding petulant even to his own ears. He winces a little and turns around, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder and relishing in the soothing hand that strokes down his spine.

“You’ll stay on your knees the whole night, I think,” Dean muses, like he’s drawing up a list in his head. His tone of voice makes it clear that he’s thought extensively about the subject, and Cas relaxes a little. He trusts Dean, even if he is nervous. “If you like, I can bring a gag. You won’t have to talk when you’re not eating. I’ll hand feed you, of course, Michael will do the same with his subs. Other than that, just stay close to me and keep your head down like a good boy.”

He tugs at the hair at the nape of Cas' neck as he says that, sending a shiver running down his body. Castiel smiles a little bit into the collar of Dean’s pristine white button-up. They stand there for a little while, Dean’s hands stroking absently along the exposed planes of Cas' back, until he happens to look at the clock.

“We’d better get going, angel,” Dean says ruefully, and Cas tugs himself away with a nod. Dean’s hands deftly come up to unbuckle his collar, tucking it into his bag as Cas follows the movement with his eyes. He wants to reach out and refasten it around his throat, even though he knows that he’ll be wearing it again when they reach Michael’s house. Dean smiles like he can read Cas' mind and kisses him gently, his hands curling possessively around Castiel’s hipbones.

“Go pick out a gag and meet me in the car when you’re ready,” Dean instructs. Cas nods. He slips on the shirt Dean laid out for him and grabs his trench coat, wrapping it around his torso and making his way into the playroom. Dean has about a million gags, but Cas selects one of the more familiar ones that doesn’t look like it came straight out of a dentist’s office: a plain red ball gag with several holes across the surface. They’ve used this one a few times, and Castiel knows from experience that his jaw will ache a little after wearing it for an extended period of time. He’d rather that than be expected to talk, though.

Dean greets him in the car by lacing their fingers together on top of the Impala’s gear shift. Castiel gives him a tentative smile and leans back into the worn leather seat, tucking the gag into the bag with his collar. Dean raises an eyebrow at his choice, but says nothing.

Michael doesn’t live far away; they arrive at his house in less than ten minutes. As they pull up and park, Castiel feels like he’s going to be sick. Dean seems to catch this and squeezes his hand tight, making Cas look up at him.

“If you’re really uncomfortable, we can leave now. Michael will understand.” Cas glances away, steeling his resolve.. He can do this. He _wants_ to do this, for Dean.

“It’s fine. Let’s just—let’s just go in.” Dean pauses, concern creasing his brow, and reaches up to cradle Cas' jaw in his hand. Castiel lets himself lean into the touch and close his eyes, opening them again when Dean presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

“What are our signals?”

“Tug twice on your sleeve if I need to talk to you, three times if I need to leave,” Castiel repeats dutifully. Dean smiles softly and releases him.

“Good,” he says, and his tone, firm yet pleased, has Cas straightening his back and lowering his head on instinct. “I’m proud of you, Cas.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he protests, relaxing ever so slightly and looking up at Dean.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean replies. “Come on.”

Dean doesn’t knock on Michael’s door. Instead, he opens it, following Castiel in and shutting the door behind them. The entryway is plain, with a coat rack next to a small table in front of the door. Dean gestures for Cas to take off his coat, and reaches into the bag they brought for the collar and gag.

Castiel hangs his coat up with no small amount of trepidation, standing obediently after toeing off his sandals as Dean fastens the collar around his neck. He closes his eyes when Dean grips the gag, opening his mouth wide as Dean pushes the rubber ball behind his teeth, cinching the strap around his head. One last step, the leash clipped to the ring in his collar, and then Castiel sinks to his knees in front of Dean, waiting for him to lead the way into the rest of the house.

Most of Castiel’s view comprises of the soft carpeting in what seems to be every room of the house, the material soft against his hands and knees. They stop, finally, before they reach the tiled kitchen, and Cas sees a pair of shiny shoes approach them, and hears the murmured greetings exchanged above him.

“Well,” Michael says appraisingly. “Let it never be said that you don’t have a type.”

Dean’s grip on his leash is tight, keeping Castiel pressed to his side, but it isn’t enough to stop him shrinking away slightly. He doesn’t hear what Dean says in response; instead, Castiel keeps his gaze firmly on the ground, ignoring the words above him and trying to forget that he’s clearly being watched.

Dean leads him into another room and sits down on a couch, still talking with Michael. Castiel kneels next to him, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, slowly feeling himself slip into what Dean calls _subspace_ , before Dean tugs gently on his leash.

“Say hello,” he says softly, reaching down and tilting Cas' chin up to look at the new arrivals to the room.

And, _fuck_ , there goes whatever good feeling Castiel may have had. Because he knows the two boys kneeling next to the chair opposite him. He’s been on study dates with them, spent hours in several of the city’s coffee shops going over notes and texts and paintings with them. Samandriel, kneeling to Michael’s right, has his eyes obediently lowered, but Adam, to his left, is staring openly at him. Castiel knows him well enough to know that if his mouth weren’t held open by what Cas recognizes to be a ring gag, he would be smirking.

Neither of them are wearing more than he is, just loose shirts and pants, but Samandriel isn’t wearing a gag and the collars around their throats are different colors; Adam’s a dark red and Samandriel’s black. Castiel feels himself flush, and as he tugs his head away from Dean’s grip he catches a softening around Adam’s eyes.

He’s tense again, fully aware of Adam’s eyes on him even as Dean and Michael continue their conversation, Dean’s hands threading reassuringly through Castiel’s hair. Eventually though, as they talk, he feels himself relaxing again.

Adam and Samandriel can’t be new to this. Dean said that they and Michael had been together for years, so it’s only natural that they’re comfortable doing this around other people. Samandriel didn’t look tense at all; in fact, he looked relaxed. Castiel tries to put himself in that headspace, that this is something that is accepted here, that there is nothing shameful in his submission. Surprisingly, it works. He relaxes into Dean’s leg and lets his eyes close, feeling Dean’s scratch of approval at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, they go into what must be the dining room, Adam and Samandriel following Michael obediently, and the three of them kneel next to the occupied chairs. Dean unfastens the gag and pulls it gently out of Castiel’s mouth, letting him work his somewhat sore jaw.

“What about him?” Dean asks, the question seemingly accompanied by a gesture.

“Oh? Adam was bad today. He’ll eat later,” Michael replies casually, and Castiel sees him reach down and stroke a hand through Samandriel’s hair. The boy preens under it, his eyes flickering to Castiel’s under the table and brimming with something like pride.

Dean reaches down with a piece of meat pinched between two fingers, offering, and Castiel leans forward to eat it out of his hand, licking Dean’s fingers slightly as he withdraws to chew. The meal continues like that, Dean feeding him from his hand as Michael does the same for Samandriel, Adam looking on in jealousy. Castiel ignores the conversation, choosing instead to feel the way Dean shows affection through the hand in his hair, the best slices of meat, the glass of water held carefully to his lips. He almost doesn’t want to leave. The atmosphere of Michael’s house is different, somehow, than what Castiel had expected. Instead of feeling ashamed of his submission as he’d expected to be, he’s proud of it.

He doesn’t know how long they sit at the table. He knows that it’s long enough that his knees have started to ache, and that the meal is done. Dean replaces his gag once dessert is over, small bites of chocolate held to his lips, and his hand constantly in Cas' hair keeps him grounded. Finally, Dean makes to stand up and Castiel drops on all fours, following him back into the foyer without needing the added incentive of the leash.

“Come on,” Dean murmurs as he tugs Castiel to his feet, grabbing his trench coat from the hanger. He moves to take the collar off and Cas pulls back, not knowing what it is that he needs but not wanting to relinquish the power Dean holds right now.

“Okay,” Dean says. He does unclip the leash and take out the gag though, tucking them back in their bag. Castiel smiles gratefully and follows Dean out the door. It’s dark outside, and Castiel allows himself the simple pleasure of feeling the collar around his throat in a place where anyone could see him. His thoughts are slow, but the feeling welling deep inside of him is contentment, or something close.

“You did so well,” Dean promises, back in the safety of the Impala. “I’m so proud of you.”

Castiel doesn’t reply verbally—he doesn’t think he can, right now—but he reaches over and takes Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Dean smiles softly, the dim light casting exquisite shadows on the planes of his face, and Castiel is happy. He’s happy here, wearing the mark of Dean’s love, Dean’s ownership around his throat. He’s happy with the dynamic between them, the way they work in the small, in-between spaces of their lives.

The ride back home is silent. Castiel almost falls asleep on the drive, his head leaning on Dean’s shoulder as he navigates the city illuminated by nothing but street-lamps. Dean has to gently shake him from the half-asleep state in order to get him back up to the apartment, and as soon as the door has closed behind them, Castiel makes a beeline for the bedroom.

He’s stripped down to his underwear and collar by the time Dean comes in, buried underneath the covers because the thermostat in the apartment always seems to be set a few degrees too low. Dean laughs lowly, shedding his clothes and replacing them with pajamas, but his eyes are questioning as he slides in next to Cas.

“Are you alright?” He asks. Castiel nods, his hands pressed to Dean’s chest and their faces inches apart. Dean reaches out to touch the collar, just a quick brush of fingers. He doesn’t understand, Castiel can see, but he lets it go, twining his fingers with Cas' and closing his eyes. It’s enough, and Castiel drifts back to sleep secure in the knowledge that he is wanted.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The next afternoon at work, Dean’s temples are throbbing before he even thinks about going home. The noise from downstairs, though almost all of it is muted, isn’t helping. Despite the unimpressed look Michael gives him, Dean grabs his headphones and fills his head with Zeppelin for the rest of the time he’s sitting at his desk. He removes them only when Michael or Benny or Pamela throws something at him, but once he’s done talking, he puts them back in. The Advil he’s taken isn’t helping much with the headache, and when he tries to lean back in his chair and is met with stabbing pain from behind his skull, he starts mentally cursing out whoever invented faulty pain pills.

Finally, he’s had enough, and starts packing up his briefcase to head back home. Cas is having dinner with Gabriel, and it’s only eight thirty, so Dean can probably get to bed early tonight if he’s lucky. So he closes up his briefcase and tucks his headphones back in his pocket, giving a brief goodbye to everyone else, who have started to pack up as well.

The Impala, unfortunately, is parked out front, so Dean finds himself weaving through the crowd so that he can leave. The noises from the few occupied stages reverberate through his skull and he winces every time he hears the crack of a paddle. He’s almost to the door, the sweet silence of the street outside, calling to him, when he sees Alastair.

He’s got an arm around a girl who can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen—she doesn’t have a wristband on, which means she can’t drink, but as Dean watches, Alastair pushes a glass of something pink and fruity into her hand, smiling falsely when she looks up at him questioningly, probably saying something like _of course, it’s fine, I won’t tell._

Dean grits his teeth, his head throbbing. He wants to go over there and punch the living daylights out of Alastair. He starts to steer the girl towards the entrance to the Pit, flashing his membership card and nodding at the glaring bouncers, and Dean follows them, like he did that night with Cas.

This time, he gets there to witness the beginning. Alastair takes the girl into the room he rents most nights, equipped with not only the basic equipment many rooms come with, but several other painful-looking instruments that previous clients had specially ordered.

“I don’t think—” The girl starts, looking around nervously at the room’s furnishings. Alastair pushes her gently forward with his hand at the small of her back, and whispers something in her ear. “No! I didn’t— _don’t_ —”

She starts to pull away, to go back into the hallway, but the moment the girl moves quicker than he likes, Alastair pulls her flush against him, using his height and strength to hold her close. The girl spits and curses at him, struggling hard. Alastair laughs and it takes Dean back sixteen years, and he wants nothing more than to punch Alastair in the nose. Repeatedly. Just as Dean’s stepping forward, ready to fight him, the girl seems to spot the sign posted on the other end of the room.

“Red!” She calls out, her voice tight and desperate, pitched loud enough for anyone walking outside the room to hear. She yells it again when Alastair’s fist jabs into her gut, then again when Dean grabs his elbow and tugs, making Alastair let go of her and turn to face him.

“Dean,” Alastair sneers. The girl scrambles to get behind Dean, her eyes wide and full of rage as she glares at Alastair.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean says, slowing his words down and ignoring his throbbing temples in favor of glaring Alastair down. “Do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m just having a little fun, Dean-o.” Alastair spreads his hands innocently, his smile sharp and sinister. “Like we did in the good ol’ days, remember?”

“You ignored the safeword,” Dean replies coldly, trying very hard not to think of ‘the good ol’ days’. “Get out of my club.”

Alastair looks shocked for a split second, but he quickly masks his surprise with a condescending look. “Little Dean-o’s finally started to grow up. How cute.”

“Shut up.”

“You know, I remember when you were just a boy, waiting on street corners for anyone to pick you up and show you what you were made for.” Alastair starts to advance on him, and Dean feels sick but holds his ground. “I think you and I could bring back a few memories, what do you think? After all, you’re no stranger to the end of my belt.”

“Get out,” Dean repeats, his gaze unwavering even though his stomach turns when Alastair comes close enough that he can feel the man’s breath on his face, the rotten stench of it tickling his nose. “Or I’ll call the police.”

Alastair pauses, their faces inches away. He’s searching Dean’s eyes, trying to tell if he’s bluffing, so Dean stands firm and tries not to let his hands tremble.

“Fine,” Alastair finally bites out. He stalks past Dean, shoving him hard, and disappears into the hallway. Dean sags in relief and exhales loudly. He still feels sick. Remembering the reason he’d come down here in the first place, he turns to the girl, who’s pressed up against the wall and white as a sheet.

“What’s your name?” He asks, sounding exhausted to his own ears.

“Krissy. And I had it under control,” she replies, her voice hard.

“Sure,” Dean says wearily. “Does anyone know you’re here?” She shrugs and pulls out her phone, leaving Dean free to rub at his forehead and silently curse the entire day. After the girl hands up, he leads her back upstairs and outside.

“My friend is coming to pick me up,” she says, then pauses. “You can go now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, wincing immediately afterward, and retreats. The Impala gleams under the light, and he rests against her for a long moment, trying to regain his energy. He wants to throw up, to throw _something_ , but instead he opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat, gripping his keys tightly.

It’s been years since Alastair had any real power over him, but somehow every time he sees him, Dean finds himself sixteen again, with his hands tied above him and that sneering face just inches away from him. So much has changed since then, but not enough for him to feel comfortable right now, not enough for him to feel safe when he gets like this.

So he drives. He doesn’t go anywhere, making loops in the city he knows like the back of his hand, flying past the coast and back up the peninsula, the ocean glistening dark and beautiful in the quiet of the night. Finally, when he can bear it, he goes back to the apartment, still dark and quiet. Dean doesn’t turn on any lights, choosing instead to navigate the rooms by touch and collapse onto the bed, emotionally exhausted. Nothing feels real, and he slips into sleep in a haze of unsettling numbness.

  


Castiel unlocks the apartment door, listening carefully to try and discern whether anyone’s inside. He hears the clanking of kitchen utensils, but there’s no shouting or fighting, so he deems it safe to walk in. The scene he’s greeted with is surprising, to say the least. Instead of Gabriel tiptoeing around, trying not to wake up a passed-out Luke, he’s cooking cheerfully, humming under his breath as he bangs pots and pans around, making as much noise as he damn well pleases.

Even more surprising is Anna, who’s sitting at the table, homework spread out in front of her and one earbud dangling loose, her foot tapping absently along with her music. The table’s clean. In fact, the whole apartment is; no empty bottles rolling around the floor or cigarette stubs in the back of the couch.

“What’s going on?” Cas asks, making his presence known. Gabriel looks up from where he’s cheerfully constructing some sort of pasta dish and shrugs.

“We’re having dinner. We planned this last week, Cassie, keep up.”

“Yeah, but...where’s Luke?” Gabriel pauses. He doesn’t look upset, exactly, but his face shifts just enough for Castiel to know that something’s wrong.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Castiel speaks slowly, unease building inside his chest. Gabriel shrugs again.

“You know him. I came home yesterday and the place was clean and he was gone. Haven’t seen him since.” They way he says it makes Castiel want to believe that he doesn’t care, but he can see the way Gabriel won’t look him in the eye, the way he never quite looks at the chair Luke used to occupy for most of the day. Castiel knows that when their parents were alive, Luke was different, and that he and Gabriel were close, but he’d never considered it before now. He doesn’t want to think about how Gabriel must have felt the first time Luke left, how he must feel now. The look in Gabriel’s eye warns Castiel that he shouldn’t bring it up.

“Is he coming back?” Castiel asks quietly. He notices that Anna is looking at them, her hair pushed back from her face. She looks guilty, almost, and her eyes dart to his ribs, where she had seen so many bruises in the last year.

“I made lasagna,” Gabriel replies. Anna looks back down at her homework, and Castiel stands in front of the couch with is backpack slung over his shoulder and questions in his mouth. He swallows them down and drops his bag, collapsing into a chair next to Anna.

“How’s Dean?” She asks, tugging out her other earbud.

“He’s good. Working,” Castiel replies. She’s been gone so often in the last months that it seems like he’s forgotten how to talk to his sister, and Anna gives him a knowing smile that’s almost-but-not-quite an apology. Gabriel swoops in then, plates of lasagna precariously balanced on his arms, and Castiel has to admit that a few years of being a waiter had done wonders for Gabriel’s clumsy nature.

“Bon appétit!” Gabriel proclaims as he settles in next to them. Castiel can almost pretend that the last year never happened, that there aren’t cigarette burns on the table they’re eating at, that the couch doesn’t still smell faintly of cheap beer. He can pretend that he never had bruises blooming under his shirts so that Anna never had to take the blows, and he can pretend that she didn’t ignore him, never saying a word when she walked in on him, shirt off and tending to his wounds.

He remembers a time where the three of them were struggling but happy, a somewhat functional family unit that hadn’t been broken down by strain and violence and desperation. Castiel lets himself believe, for a short while, that they’re okay, and that there aren’t words that the three of them are biting back every time they looks each other in the eye. And for now, it’s okay. Not perfect, but okay.

  


Dean wakes up when Castiel turns on the light. He’s face down on the bed, clothes still on, and he grumbles and scrunches up his eyes to stop the light from getting in.

“Sorry!” Cas exclaims, flicking the light back off. Dean makes a reassuring noise, his face still buried in the pillow, and rolls over onto his back when he feels Castiel’s weight dip the bed. “Are you okay?”

Dean doesn’t answer, instead choosing to grab Castiel around the waist and pull him close. Cas yelps and flails a little bit until he manages to regain his balance, spread out on the bed with Dean’s arms around his waist. Castiel leans into him, concern etched plainly onto his face, and touches Dean’s cheek gently.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean shakes his head and nuzzles into Castiel’s collarbone, inhaling the scent that’s uniquely Cas, something dark and musky. That smell has started to feel like home now.

Castiel makes a soft noise into Dean’s hair and pulls the blanket up and over them, the only light in the room filtering in through the curtains. They’re wrapped around each other, hopelessly entangled, and Dean doesn’t think that he’d rather be anywhere else. There’s something magical about being wanted like this, he thinks. There’s something beautiful in being loved.

“I love you,” he whispers into Cas' neck, pressing a kiss there to ease the ache of the words. Castiel strokes a gentle hand down Dean’s back, and he can feel the pounding of Cas' heart through his shirt.

“I love you too,” Cas murmurs back, and Dean lets himself sink into the rhythm of Cas' breaths, matching them until they’re breathing in tandem, their hearts beating against each other.

Dean falls asleep, warm and safe and loved, with Castiel watching over him late into the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck this out, thank you so much! Feel free to check [me](http://cxckslutcas.co.vu) and [my artist](http://dudewheresmypie.tumblr.com) out on tumblr!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to say hi on [tumblr!](http://cxckslutcas.co.vu)


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